how dare you speak of grace.

   [ Only a lot. ]

   ”Ethan—” And when his name curls out of those lips, it’s with a teasing lilt, jaw tipping briefly into a warm palm.

   Ethan presses so close that it sends Isaac a step back—quite a feat for being that much shorter than him—and he chases the elder’s teeth with his own, no sting behind his nips, only heat behind his tongue, muscles shifting and bunching under Ethan’s hands.    ”Hey, hey… easy… lemme get a good look at you, now that I don’t wanna punch you anymore—”

       Fucking asshole.

       There's not much to look at. Just some scrapes and bruises that he hasn't let heal yet, tired eyes with dark circles under them from lack of sleep ( and probably nutrition ). He doesn't take care of himself as well as he should anymore. He doesn't have anyone to impress.

       Loretta doesn't look much better, either. They're both burnt out.

    ❝ Somethin’ like that? Care to elaborate, lad? ❞

   He’d howl, if it came to that—but he doesn’t need to.

   His own hands stroke up and down Ethan’s back until one of them finds a spot against the nape of his neck, hot skin to hot skin—    and he pulls, drags at what ever he can, black skittering up his hands and disappearing under his sleeves, distracts Ethan with his mouth because he knows the asshole’s gonna have something say about it—and he can bitch and complain later.

      "Isaac--"

       He's attached to this pain. He shares a home with this pain. He can't afford to lose it.

       But he can't afford to lose Isaac ( again ) either. And he did miss this, this taste, the taste of the boy he loves, the boy he'll forever love. Missed the warmth in his kiss. Something flutters in the pit of an empty stomach, and his hands slide around to cup Isaac's face, then drop to his waist, his hips, move beneath the layers of clothing to touch him. 

       Digs his nails in, leaves a sharp sting behind. A whine surfaces in his throat, teeth skimming Isaac's bottom lip upon the drawback, and it takes all of a split second for Ethan to kiss him again, crush his mouth against the other's, and pray he doesn't push him off when his hands pull at his hair and his body presses flush against him.

Words won’t suffice, not until ——- 

    ❝ Fuckin’ Hell, Ethan. You’re alive. ❞

       Well — he wasn't expecting that. No complaints, though.

   Isaac’s wolf lurches, crashes into his ribs, expands until he feels fit to bursting, until red bleeds into his eyes and the hair at the back of his neck stands on end.

   He cuts his gaze away, breath hitching, and uses that hand to drag Ethan closer, hauling him into his arms, pressing close, nose to his neck, inhaling—    Hugs him until their bones grind together, but it’s okay, now that the hollowness in his core isn’t quite so hollow, until his teeth ache from the press of fangs, holds him until he feels both too young and too old for his skin.    ”I missed you—I missed you so, so much—”

      What he wouldn't give to stay just like this for the rest of his years. He's been tired a lot lately, sore, he's been sick, and he's been tearing himself apart from the inside out. Missing this, missing him, missing the love. 

       He clutched to Isaac like he's afraid of something, like he thinks the boy's going to disappear in a cloud of smoke. His fingers curl into his jacket, then his hair. He's happy that Isaac's here, alive, breathing, safe -- still his, his, his; forever his.

       And for the first time in a long while, a smile finally breaks through the mold. 

      "I miss you. I missed you—I love you—I still love you. I'll always love you."

   ”I took care of it.”

   He hesitates visibly, partially because he’s still a little mad, and mostly because he can smell everything, amplified in a way it’s never been before, he doesn’t want to take advantage of—but he still stretches a hand out, palm up, in invitation.

       It's probably better that he doesn't ask a question he already knows the answer to.

      "I'm sorry."

       There it is again — the apology that weighs so heavy on his tongue, because he thinks that maybe if he says it enough, it'll stick. Even though actions speak a hell of a lot louder than words. 

       His gaze drops to the hand stretched out to him. He's thought about this a number of times. How he'd greet Isaac if he ever saw him again, and if ( by chance ) Isaac didn't tear into him like kibble.

       Sometimes he thought there would be no words; just two bodies that crash together to make up for the time spent apart in kisses and breathless moans and tangled limbs. Other times he thought he might sit for a while, and then slowly get back in the swing of things.

       Touch Isaac the way he used to, without hesitation.

       He didn't think his hands would shake when he reached out to brush over the boy's palm, or that his mouth would be dry and his throat would close up and his heart would hurt. How is it possible to miss someone this bad, even if they're right in front of you?

   There’s a lengthy pause, one where Isaac simply looks at him for a moment,    and maybe he sees someone else    someone new, or older, or more tired    but he smiles, a crooked little upturn of the mouth.    ”…Couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Had enough throat cutting in the past couple of months to last me for the rest of my life, to be honest.”

       Seeing that smile, as small as it may be, almost made him cry.

       His breath might've even hitched the way it does when someone's getting choked up, whether it be out of happiness, sorrow, anger, what have you. There's a pull in his chest that he can't place. He swallows the lump in his throat before speaking.

      "That's, uh. Troubling."