#moldcursed

leon tries to hide the fact that he's smug about this fact. he'd been tasked to assist with training winters as a personal favor to chris. his arms are crossed as ethan's just at target practice. " you're thinking too much about this, " a terrible decision for leon to speak up about. chris would tell ethan that he needs to never listen to leon when it comes for advice. leon wasn't the type of person who was a team player anyhow. solo missions only. rarely did he play well with others.

@moldcursed: don’t mind ethan, grabbing the front of chris’s shirt and yanking him in for a quick kiss. don’t mind him at all.

Chris was grinning into the kiss, confident stance only growing more bold as his large arms come to wrap around Ethan's slimmer frame, deepening the kiss was low and masculine growl. He had only been gone for a week, but it did something warm in Chris's tummy knowing Ethan, his Ethan missed him so much. It felt good to have someone to come home to, as complicated and awkward as their blooming romance had become.

Pulling back from the kiss to allow both of them some air, he's smiling cheekily down at the blonde, his hold on him not letting up in the slightest. " Well, Ethan Winters-Redfield, if I was a gambling man, I'd bet on you missing me. " Leaning in he peppers a few quick kisses along his husband's jaw and finally one more peck on those sweet lips.

"Fffffuck--!"

Sebastian has to dig his fingers into the dirt beneath him to keep from wrapping his palm around Ethan's throat. He's not in his right mind-- he can't be in his right mind, because this isn't the Ethan he remembers-- and in that, murder just doesn't feel right.

He's lost too many people. Being directly responsible for the death of one of them feels like too much even in theory.

"Are you--" God, it hurts. "Fucking done, then?"

He doesn't look down at the wound Ethan created in him. He won't even try to make sense of it. Sebastian clings onto the pathetic, miserable possibility that Ethan is still in there somewhere based solely on the fact that he didn't aim for anything vital.

His heels dig into the ground, and as he presses his fingers in harder, dirt collects thickly under his nails.

"Get a hold of yourself, Winters."

              @moldcursed // ask prompts.

              It was a question left lingering in the air between them for some time. A silent guilt, so heavy at times it felt almost tangible, like he could very well taste it on the end of his tongue. In all reality, it may very well have been out of his comprehension- most likely was, given the fact that Redfield wasn’t known to be the most open when it came to the truth. For the fact lay silent between them both: in some twisted way, they were connected by strings of fate, crafted by his own hand. To think, one simple decision years ago would change the lives of so many- a tangled web- a butterfly effect- leading them both to where they were now. Viruses, Las Plagas, the mold itself- all connected- and all the destruction brought to fruition by his hand. So it wasn’t even an option, nor a second thought, the day he walked into his lab. He had to help him, help right the wrongs of so many things he’d done those years ago. It was why, despite what he could do, what he could become, he didn’t flinch nor fear him like so many others- not a monster- but a man, a man who had his life stolen away by things he couldn’t control. 

              It was why he stood by him, even now as he pushed away the helping hand he offered. Why he’d follow, even as he tried to break distance between them. He was hurting in ways no regular person could understand. Why instead he’d give his space, even as he followed him, down long stretching halls of the Umbrella facility, into the cold air where he seemed to try to run just to be free of such a contained space. 

              Instead he said nothing for a long while, waiting for Ethan’s shoulders to settle from their tenseness, the thought still ringing in the back of his mind as he chose to light himself a cigarette. Hands buried into his lab coat, chin lifted toward the sky as he inhaled smoke and released it toward the clouds overhead. “Because you and I- we’re not so different. Physically maybe but…” the cigarette was plucked from his lips, letting out a half shrug as he explained. “We’ve both struggled, and though I can’t say I know exactly what you went through, I know what it’s like to have been a prisoner- not just during the events of what happened, but after. You, with the Bakers- myself well.. That’s a story for another time.” The cigarette was offered his direction, a peace offering, if he was willing to take it. It gave him a chance to focus on him, gray eyes searching for his own blue hues, studying, drinking in the sight of the blonde as if staring at a work of art. Captivated, as his voice grew low, soft and heated as he roamed over his features with a lingering smile dancing on his features.