#rentho

"In the prize room of Decked Out," he states. Etho gives an aborted shrug.

The inside of the monolith is as homey as it had ever been, lined with smooth, white stone and dark wood, carpets and chests and low hanging lights Ren had to duck to avoid. 

"You're going to sleep in a real bed, my man," he muses. Etho sighs.

"I had it under control!"

"I'm sure."

"Tango... had it under control,” Etho mumbles.

"He's gonna have a heart attack thinkin' you straight up died and your body got all..."

"Stuckificated."

Ren scrunches his nose, planting a kiss on the free space of Etho's forehead. Etho makes a startled squeak, squirming in his arms as Ren stands on the first step of the stairs, beaming down at him.

"You sound just like 'em."

Etho grumbles.

"Jerk," he warbles out, more embarrassed laugh than bite.

Ren laughs, a sound that rolls through his chest just as much as it probably rolls through Etho. Ren follows the staircase up several landings to the sparsely used bedroom, the faint smell of old candles and packed linens drifting through the space, tugging on memories. Etho spent some of his time here—when he wasn't sleeping in his workspace, or on the couch, or on the floor, or in his half finished build, or, it seemed, in the rooms of Decked Out Two. Those nights Ren remembers with a particular, swelling fondness, pressed carefully between the chambers of his heart. 

He lets Etho untangle himself, all limbs and sharp joints and padded muscle. He shakes himself out, flopping forward at the waist to stretch out his back as Ren steps backward, grinning at him. At this angle, all of Etho's hair, the partially braided bits that Bdubs attempted to keep together, fall over his head and brush the floor. Etho huffs, brushing it all back in one messy swipe as he stands up, looking disgruntled and dislodged. He lets his shoulders sag a little as he starts to detangle his hair, fix his clothes and wander to the bedside. Ren watches with a careful, somewhat attentive eye. It doesn't take Etho long to settle despite all his stretching and preening—as soon as he sits, tugging off non-essential clothes and changing into pajamas passed over, he crawls under the layers of blankets and curls up, small against the wide space of the mattress. 

Ren steps forward then, tucking the blankets better over his shoulders, carefully combing back hair that dips into Etho's face. Etho's face softens in the now-low light, smoothing out the freckles and smile lines, crow's feet and lines of stress under his eyes. Ren runs his hand through his hair, back over his shoulders and rests it there on the cusp of his arm before he pulls away. Just as he does, Etho catches his hand, tugging ever so, more deadweight than anything as he fights sleep.

"What's up, baby?" Ren jokes, giving his weak hand a squeeze.

"Stay here," Etho mumbles into the pillow. Then, partially aborted as he shuts his eyes, more sound than words: "Please."

"Well," Ren muses, scrunching up his face. "Since you said please, I don't know if I have much choice!"

Etho hums, the note high in his throat. Ren takes that as a fundamentally good sign. 

"But," he tacks on, sitting in the space Etho leaves for him, the warm impression of him still felt on the blankets. "I'm not lying down with you. I have other things to do, unlike you."

"Mrgh."

"I know, it's a terrible shame. I slept the entire night last night, so I'm allowed to work during the day."

Etho huffs. The tense look to his face dissipates though, as Ren leans forward to press a kiss to his temple, smooth back his mess of hair that most certainly, certainly needs a good brush, and probably a good shampoo. Ren sets the task a little higher on his mental to-do list. He lingers against Etho's cheek, kissing the high of his cheekbone, smiling to himself when Etho relaxes a fraction.