#shoutout to tuna for being the best cowriter ever i love them sm

[oh-snapperss]

Promise I Held (Just Out of Reach)

hi guys. this is a cowrite by me and @tunastime, a continuation of our hot tea fics we wrote a few months ago. you don't have to have read them to read this, but it adds to the experience!

words: 3788

warnings: none

read on ao3!

On the top of a large, grey-white slab of rock, a figure looks to the sky.

Bdubs is sitting on the warm rock face and wondering when the sun might set. He sighs. The air in his chest feels short. He chews at the inside of his cheek and wonders when the sun will set, not because he needs it but because he wants it. It’s the only solace he gets here, and it’s the only solace the games give him in general, even when he doesn’t sleep, and even when he’s not allowed to. He’s not allowed to sleep here. The nights are too short to warrant it, and there’s too much killing going around, coupled with the fact that his clock isn’t visible to him. To see his time he has to stand by the river edge and crane his neck to even glance at the ticking seconds, and keep doing the mental math. He’s close to yellow. He can feel that at least. Maybe he’ll get lucky. Maybe there’ll be another chance to get a boogey kill. Some extension on his life. Something he’ll have to get for himself this time, it seems. He’s trying to be patient, something he’s gotten too good at doing, even with the short string it hangs from.

He’s waiting for Etho to come back.

It seems like a hopeless cause, but something deeply entrenched and rooting around in his chest believes otherwise. Etho comes back, doesn’t he? Not necessarily crawling, but something of the sort, standing off to the side, waiting to be welcomed back with a kicked-dog expression. So Bdubs is waiting for him. 

“When will it be enough for you?”

Cleo’s voice is a cut through his train of thoughts like a cleaver. He turns, bracing his hand on the rock to support himself. She’s standing behind him, hands on her hips. At least he has Cleo, he thinks, as a warm tumbling thing rolls around in the empty space of his chest. He turns back around, expression souring.

“Never.”

The it is self-explanatory. It is whatever Etho gives him in lieu of an actual partnership, or an actual apology. They’d exchanged those, once before, after everything. So is he really to blame for thinking this might go a bit differently? That Etho might be beside him, instead of over the crest of the hill, playing house with the remnants of a team he used to be a part of? They’ve gone and replaced him with his better half. Dead weight. The it is the strings of affections Etho tries to tie together. It’s I love you never said but implied. It’s how they’ve always functioned, except in places they know are truly safe. Bdubs doesn’t mind that. But how is he supposed to not yearn for it, even here?

“He’s not coming back, y’know,” Cleo adds. She’s not moved any closer. Bdubs shrugs. He’s too busy watching the sky start to go orange at the edges

“Doesn’t matter,” he says shortly. Cleo huffs. She doesn’t say anything else, and neither does Bdubs, even when her footsteps have long since faded back to their cave.

Bdubs is waiting.

It’s an action he’s gotten very good at.

The good thing, though, is that night comes quicker than usual. It’s something about rotation, or sun’s rays, some science-y thing Bdubs would need to work out much longer than a few minutes to completely understand. He watches the sun brush the horizon for only a moment before he turns away, and the stretch of orange above it. 

Etho never came back. His boots crunch against bits of pebbled stone and granite. So it’s his job to find him. He’s good at that, too. Just keep walking. Walking. Walking. Soon enough he’ll find something, right? Anything?

He pokes his way down, minding the way the stone turns to dirt and dirt to grass. Just beyond the next hill he can see a tall stone structure. He’s not sure what about this place feels so much more alive than previous games. There’s a nervous energy to the air, like a static charge. He makes his way over the hill.

He can see someone at the top of the tower as he manages down the other side of the hill. He hears grumbling, some unmistakable noise only Tango could make. Wading the short way over to the sandy bank, Bdubs stands, looking up on a particularly nicely textured tower, all things considered. He’s tempted to reach out and touch it, but Tango hears his approach. He leans over the edge of the tower, peering over at him.

“Tango!” Bdubs squints at him, smiling. 

“Bdubs?” Tango leans a bit further. “What’d’you want?”

“I, uh…” He stops short. For all his big game, wandering around like he’s made up his mind, Bdubs still isn’t sure exactly what this is going to give him. Closure? Hope? Anything? He’s been standing here silent. Better say something. “I’m looking for Etho.”

“Mm.” Tango jerks his head to the left. He keeps his tone neutral, though, and besides, in the cover of nearly night, Bdubs can’t really tell what he’s thinking anyway. “He’s over at the farm. The uh—the box, there. Why? What’d’you need ‘em for?”

“Just to chat.”

“To chat?”

Bdubs nods.

“Yeah. I mean it.”

Tango shrugs. He seems to believe it. Bdubs isn’t lying anyway. It’s not like he could actually do something right now.

“Alright. Enjoy your talk, man. Lemme know if you need somethin’.”

Bdubs thinks he sees the swish of a tail before Tango ducks away, back to moving stone bricks around. Bdubs nods. Right. Left. To the farm. The “box” as Tango had put it. He can see the outline in the torchlight.

Making his way over, Bdubs steels his expression, trying to sooth frazzled nerves. He makes his way through the beach and around the side of the hill, toward the mass of dirt and granite that resembled its namesake.

Down the stone steps, walled in by the border and the box itself. Bdubs can hear the mobs within fighting, falling, dying. It’s a familiar sound, the clattering of bones and groans of undead… hissing of creepers and the crawling spiders. Not to say a pleasant sound, but… it’s something reminiscent of better times, at least, when time and death meant nothing. 

He’s shaken from his thoughts at the bottom of the steps, where the entrance to the farm lies. There’s a hole, and a rickety ladder into darkness. He shakes his head, but doesn’t hesitate to descend, rung by rung until his ankles land in water. Eurgh. It splashes up to his knees when he turns to get out of it, and he shivers—not cause he’s cold, but… he’s a little cold. 

Even with his soaked boots, and aching arms from the climb down, he falters before fully stepping away from the water and towards his… friend, partner, lover… Etho. Who hasn’t bothered to acknowledge him, save for the hand straying toward the diamond sword at his side and stiffened back. His other hand keeps busy, gathering gunpowder from the chest and placing it straight onto the crafting table.

“Etho?”

This time, his only sign Etho knows he’s there is that both hands go to craft TNT, and his posture gets about as bad as Bdubs knows it usually is. Other than that, Bdubs is ignored, and he frowns, a prickle of hurt creeping through. Dead weight. Did Etho think the same? 

“E-Etho?” Bdubs’ voice falters, and he winces at the crack in his usual facade of boisterous bravado. 

For the first time since the timer started, at least that Bdubs has seen, Etho pauses. Just a heartbeat, just long enough to acknowledge Bdubs’ presence. But the moment passes, and Etho resumes his work, not even bothering to turn to Bdubs as he gathers gunpowder and crafts more of the TNT. 

Gather, craft. Gather, craft. A terrifying rhythm of coming destruction, and Etho won’t look at Bdubs. His hands are too busy, and Bdubs’ own flutter about uselessly before he settles on leaning against the wall and watching. Even then, he picks at the sleeve of his shirt, biting his lip before trying again.

“You’re… you busy right now?” He keeps his voice quiet, as if any volume might shatter the peace and walls both have built up. There’s water dripping from the rocks above his head and he holds back from wrinkling his nose when a drop lands on it. 

“Got things to do,” Etho mutters, turning back to the collection chest. A wrinkle appears between his eyebrows—empty. 

“Of course, of course…” Bdubs tracks Etho’s calloused hands as they pack away the last of the tnt. There’s a spark in Etho’s eyes as he does that Bdubs doesn’t particularly like—it feels wrong, and far too similar to the same spark a flint and steel might make. “Do you have a minute?” (Or a few?) 

“Do any of us?” Etho’s tone is light, but to Bdubs, there’s almost a beat to each word, a tick-tick-tick of seconds passing, of life draining. Etho steps forward, and so does Bdubs, but then Etho steps right past him to the water and ladder, not even sparing a second to look into Bdubs’ eyes.

And so Bdubs follows helplessly, just like he always does, once again grimacing at the water pooled around his ankles before he starts up the ladder after Etho. “W-Etho, c’mon…” 

Up and up and up into the starry night above, up the stairs, past the base and into the woods. Step, step, step, step. Tick, tick, tick, tick. 

“Watcha doin’, Etho?” 

“Resource gathering.” 

“It’s the middle of the night… shouldn’t you be sleepin’?” Bdubs raises his eyebrows, trying to keep up with Etho’s quick march. He’s really too short for this–not that he’ll ever admit that out loud. 

“Shouldn’t you be, sleep king B-double-o?” Etho side-eyes him, raking his gaze down to where Bdubs stumbles over his own feet. 

“Oh, come on…” Bdubs grumbles, but Etho’s right. “...wanted to see you?” 

“Wanted to see me?” Etho sounds teasing and entirely uncaring. “Shouldn’t you be with Cleo ‘n Scar?” They’ve reached a point, lit up with few torches. There’s a rudimentary tree farm ahead, ready to be harvested, but surely Etho isn’t just using his precious tnt, is he?

“Oh, tell me you aren’t just blowin’ it u-”

Bang! It’s lit and fired off before Bdubs can finish his sentence. While Etho heads forward, dragging his axe from his back to harvest and collect, Bdubs backs up a couple steps. 

“Etho, please look at me-” 

“I can hear you just fine. I gotta collect this stuff, ‘dubs.” 

And that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s frustrating, and so very Etho, and none of it makes sense, because Bdubs just wants to talk to Etho and he wants Etho to look at him even if it’s just for two seconds, would he please just acknowledge, or sit down, or-

Two short breaths, then one deep, and Bdubs thinks maybe he can fix this. Maybe-

He leaves Etho to his farm, staying within sight to gather sticks and wood. When he drops to the ground to place it all, to make a fire, twigs push into his knees uncomfortably, the ground itself damp and cold. It’s awful, and it’s worth it to light the campfire, to place that rickety old tin kettle he’d brought with him. The kettle trembles in his grasp, a memory of a time with it hadn’t been his, it had been theirs. He waits to use it though, wanting to bring Etho over first. 

But then Etho walks out, glances over, and just shakes his head, like it means nothing, like it never did. He scrambles to his feet, the kettle left empty on the ground. He makes it over to Etho before he can walk away fully, out towards the river nearby. Once again staring at the ground over Bdubs, Etho tries to slide past, but Bdubs just can’t help it, heart aching in all the worst places. 

“Please-” Bdubs’ hands fly out, then halt just before touching Etho. His plea is quiet too, but Etho hesitates to move away and Bdubs reaches fully forward to take both of Etho’s hands in his. He runs his calloused fingertips over the backs of Etho's hands, gently turning them palm up with his thumbs. Scars cover Etho’s hands in angry red ridges, and Bdubs traces over them without a word, keeping his eyes on them instead of Etho’s face. He doesn’t think he could possibly look at Etho right now, not when Etho could shove him away, call him dead weight or laugh it off or-

But he doesn’t, and Bdubs barely catches the soft, too-fast intake of breath from Etho. Another moment of memorizing the palms he already knows by heart, and he closes his hands fully, squeezing them tightly. 

“Just-come sit down. Please?” He won’t take no for an answer, tugging Etho forward with both hands until they’re next to a couple rocks near the farm. “Here.” 

Etho’s eyes squeeze shut, stressed in the way Bdubs sees when he’s worked too long on a project without sleeping, or the times in the snow fort he’d thought Bdubs hadn’t seen in the nights spent across the fence. “I shouldn’t.” 

“Just a few minutes.” (Just tonight. Just for tonight.) 

He doesn’t miss the way Etho tenses, or the shuddering breaths he takes. 

“Okay,” he sounds tired, already shifting his weight from leg to leg. 

Bdubs doesn’t let go of his hand, though, as he pulls Etho with him to the unlit fire. It’s funny, in some type of way, that he came prepared thinking that Etho would say yes, when every other part of him knew Etho would say no. He drops to the ground, Etho still standing at his side, to light the fire. It takes a second to catch, but when it does, Etho is dropping next to him. He holds his hands out in front of him, palms turned toward the heat. Bdubs takes his time setting up. It’s a process he’s seen Etho follow too many times to count on his hands. If he’s being honest, he’d originally brought the set for himself, knowing a day without it would leave him grumpy and nonfunctional. Being able to share it with Etho now was a luxury he’d surely taken for granted back home. Now it, for this small moment, was all they had. 

He fills the kettle halfway with water from his canteen, tosses in the tea leaves, and sets it in the coals. Chamomile. His preferred stuff. He watches the kettle for a second, listening to it start to rumble. Then he glances at Etho. Etho glances up, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. His eyes flick across the dark sky they both know will soon be gone, replaced with the sun and a bright, scary blue. Bdubs sighs.

“Mind if I join you?” Etho extends one of the mugs towards Bdubs, and Bdubs takes it gratefully, hands curling around the heat of the mug. Then Etho sinks to the ground on the other side of the campfire, legs crossed. He places his mask on the log next to him.

I love you, I made you tea.

Etho hasn’t taken off his mask, yet, but he’s just at the side of the campfire. His familiar, left-hand spot to Bdubs.

Bdubs fishes two cups out of his bag—the last bit of the set. As much as he would rather wooden ones, the metal ones will have to do. He lifts the kettle as it starts to boil, and pours out a cup of tea. It smells strong enough as Bdubs lifts it. Then, he holds it out for Etho to take. Etho finally looks over, and his eyebrows furrow.

He’s still wearing his mask.

Bdubs swears he doesn’t flinch.

There, he takes another small wooden cup from the satchel and turns back to the pot. The metal tin is lukewarm at best, and only a few long wisps of steam rise from the cup’s surface, but Etho cradles it in both hands. With a deliberate slowness, he turns to Bdubs, and extends his hands.

Etho takes the cup, and Bdubs feels their hands knock together awkwardly as he tries to grab it from him. He manages the last bit of a wheezing sounding laugh, and pretends not to notice Etho’s eyes squinting shut for a moment.

Etho sits with his tea for a moment, holding it in the cradle of his hands. Bdubs knows the motion—he saw it a long time ago, before Etho got comfortable with him. He lowers his eyes to the second cup, and Etho seems to relax after a second. He hears him sigh tiredly. Bdubs stares into his newly poured cup of tea and chews his bottom lip.

“Etho...” Bdubs says, still looking up into the sky. Etho turns his head to him, and in the light of the fire, he can just see the profile of his face, tipped back. Etho’s eyebrows raise questioningly.

“Yes?”

“I want to offer you a proposition.”

“Etho?” He asks. Etho hums. “I want to offer you a proposition.”

Etho laughs. The sound is warmer than he’s expecting.

“I can’t run away with you, B,” he says, and his tone stays light. Bdubs feels his stomach turn over—both in a good and bad way.

“Hey!” He swings out, trying to catch his arm and failing. “I never said…”

But that is what he was going to ask. Etho’s stolen the words right out of his mouth. He takes a sip of tea. The chamomile is bitter without honey.

“It’s not that I don’t want to…” Etho starts, and it sounds an awful lot like a rejection. Bdubs shakes his head. When he looks over at Etho, his leg bounces nervously. He’s not looking directly at Bdubs, but over his shoulder instead, eyes occasionally flicking over to his face. His mask is forgotten, hooked around his ear, and his mouth is a fine line. 

“You just can’t,” Bdubs finishes. “Look, I get it…I do, I promise.”

Etho sighs. It’s a weary sound Bdubs doesn’t hear often.

“I don’t think it’s good for us,” he manages, turning the cup in his hands. Luckily for Etho, Bdubs is watching his hands move, rather than studying the pinched expression on his face. 

“No, Etho, it’s fine,” Bdubs says, despite the way his chest hurts when he says it. “You don’t have to make excuses.”

Silence stretches between them. Bdubs watches Etho turn the cup, like he’s studying the contents, and Bdubs feels his chest start to stuff up with cotton. It’s a lingering silence, like a sticky heat, something tangible, like a thread. He wishes he could reach out and cut it with a knife, but Etho coughs, and the stillness goes back to being the sound of crickets and water lapping at the shore a few paces away. There’s a shock of cold to the air. The fire fights to warm them both.

“Bdubs,” Etho starts. The words are slow and deliberate. “You don’t take this seriously. You're just treating this like it's a game." 

Bdubs makes a noncommittal noise. "Well that's what you're supposed to do, isn't it?” He shrugs. “In the title and everything…"

Etho shakes his head. There’s that silence again. At least it’s shorter this time.

“I can’t come with you.” Etho doesn’t look at him. Bdubs shrugs again.

“‘S fine…at least finish your tea, will you?” The words are half-caught in his throat like he’s coughing them out. The dregs of his tea have gone cold in his cup, but he knocks back the contents and grimaces as he swallows. It’s better than nothing. Etho nods. He drinks slowly, even as Bdubs knows his tea has cooled, and even as the thread taut between them pulls at them both. Just one night, right?

“Just one night,” Etho says. Bdubs shuts his eyes.

“Right.”

Etho leans forward, still holding his cup. Then, he stands, brushing his free hand on his pants, rehooking his mask over the other ear. The expression Bdubs manages to catch is pained, tight, uncomfortable. Etho curls and uncurls his hands. 

“Thanks for the tea, ‘Dubs.” Etho sounds unsure, like he might be looking for something else.

“Sure thing.”

Etho’s back is turned to him, now, where he stands at the very edge of the flickering light the campfire gives. And he’s about to leave, and they’ll meet again, sure, and pretend, and play two different games, and then they’ll go home and pretend to play the same one. He blinks back tears, because he knows, he knows Etho’ll come back to him, eventually. It’s just a game. Staggering to his feet, he stumbles towards Etho out of time–tick, step, ti-step, tick, tick, step. Even with his fumbling, loud movement, Etho doesn’t flinch, staring down into his cup just emptied, rather than the woods promising resources, or the stars that no longer promise safety. 

He shuffles forward, to rest his forehead against Etho’s back. It fits just between his shoulder blades, pressing against the thin padding of Etho’s jacket. 

For a second, Bdubs rests, and it's as if nothing's changed at all. For a moment, he holds his breath, and feels as if time stops ticking. It's over, though, as soon as it starts. Just one day.

He reaches up, hardly daring to breathe, until his fingers just barely brush against the arm of Etho’s jacket, tracing along his elbow. Part of him wants to wrap his hand fully around, wants to tug Etho around to face him, to beg him to stay with him, even if it means sacrificing their time. He knows better. He knows Etho loves him, and he knows it’s not enough, not in the game. So instead he stays perfectly still, save for his shuddering, unsteady breaths. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and he means it. 

Etho’s own breaths are out of time, too. Just for a few seconds, but it’s enough. “I’ll see you after, ‘dubs.” 

Bdubs doesn’t watch Etho walk forward. But he certainly feels the pull and the cool air on his face instead of fabric. Behind him, the fire splutters back into nothing, and the creeping chill against his back sets him shivering. He drags his hands up and down his arms quickly, trying to warm himself, and rather than linger and stare at his failed proposition, he steps forward in the direction of his bed. Step, tick, step, tick, step, tick.