Archive of Our Own

We're all familiar with a good ol’ tragic love story, right? 

It's a tale as old as time; star-crossed lovers who choose each other despite all the odds being against their favours, despite the fact that the world is not made for them. 

You know, like Romeo and Juliet, Heathcliffe and Cathy, Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan, Anna Karenina and Count Vronsky… God, the list is endless. 

Whose love makes your head spin a little and your heart clench and your eyes burn just a tad, and makes you long for that sort of devotion to another person. You know it, don’t you? 

Well, this is not one of those stories. 

No, this is the tragic, twisted tale of broken little Ethan Collins and wretched little Alexander Lee, and of how, in a world where everything and everyone was against them, they made everything fucking worse. 

This is the story of how they destroyed each other and reduced each other to little pieces of shrapnel made of blood, flesh and bone, and how it wasn't love that drove them, but hatred, for each other, for the world, and most of all, for themselves. 

This is not a love story, because they did not love each other. 

Or maybe they did, once upon a time. We'll never get to know. 

So, ladies and gentlemen and everyone who's in between, grab some buttered popcorn, snuggle up under a blanket, hold your loved ones close, and embark with me on this perilous tale of morality, destruction, sex and intoxication that made up their tumultuous relationship and brought them to their inevitable doom. 

Of course, it all starts with that first meeting. Love at first sight. When they catch a glimpse of that person across a room and just know instantly that they’re the one. It’s just like that, isn’t it?

When you know, you know, right?

Ethan couldn’t specifically recall the first time he met Alex. The memory was fuzzy, unclear, lurking in the back of his mind like it had decided it was irrelevant, in a way.

He remembered enough. Alex would’ve only been fourteen, then, and he was like, what? Fifteen? Fifteen and small for his age, with Andrew’s arm draped across his shoulders, ‘cause it had to have been Andrew who introduced them to each other, right? Who started it all, albeit indirectly.

Alex’s soft, youthful features had been settled into a permanent state of cool detachment, Ethan’s arranged in a wild, broad grin, dimples and all. They’d been so different back then. From each other, and from themselves now.

Ethan couldn’t remember much else. They’d seen each other on a few occasions through Andrew after that. To call them acquaintances would have been a stretch. They knew of each other, but that was about it.

So, maybe the first time they truly met was when Ethan had started working at the prison Alex was in. Still, even then, it was no head-over-heels moment once they caught a glimpse of one another. Ethan had startled, caught off guard, and his internal thoughts had been decidedly less romantic and more along the lines of, Oh God, that’s Drew’s fucking cousin. Shit, shit, shit. Fuck. What do I do? 

He had been so frozen that Aaron had nudged him, concerned, breaking him out of his trance-like state of panic. “Hey, new guy? What’s up? You look scared shitless.”

He followed Ethan’s line of sight to Alex and let out a low whistle. “Oof. Long hair and young. He’s gonna have a rough time.”

That… was true, actually. He would have an awful time. Something uncomfortable had twisted in Ethan’s gut. He despised Andrew, now, but Alex? They had scarcely interacted. It wouldn’t be fair to let him suffer just because of whom he was related to. He couldn’t just let that happen.

So he’d taken that initial step, made the first move in the twisted game of chess they would come to play, neither of them ever winning. Both always losing.

Ethan had not realised, then, at the time just how entwined their lives would grow to be in the years to come.

Maybe if he’d known how it all would have ended, he would have done the wise thing and kept his distance. Or perhaps they truly were drawn to each other, like two broken magnets, neither of which certain who was the moth and who was the flame.

Then, of course, comes the longing. The want. Deep and aching, residing in the space of your chest, heating up your cheeks, fluttering in your stomach when you catch a glimpse of them. That feeling of desire coiling tight, low in your gut.

The knowledge of I know I cannot have you, but by God, I will try.

Ethan wanted Christian. Still. Just a little. Even after all of this time. Yet it had come to fade in the months since he and Alex had fallen into each other, his dreams plagued with icy blue eyes instead of warm brown ones. Perhaps that should have been counted as a blessing, but Ethan really had just stumbled from one fucked up relationship to the next.

A shame, really. 

Ethan wanted Alex. If he were to be straightforward and brutally honest, with alcohol having loosened his tongue and lowered the walls he had built up protectively around himself, he would have told you that, and it would have been true.

He might have said it whilst nursing a glass of whiskey, staring despairingly down into its contents. He did. Want Alex, that is. Alex, who was all soft, faded blue eyes and tiny yet genuine smiles, and ice-white hair that settled over the breadth of his wide shoulders and spilled down his back like snow descending over a mountain.

But he was long, long gone, and how much Ethan craved him was irrelevant, because, try as he might, he was not going to come back, and a stranger took his place. One with frosty eyes tinged a sickly red, bitten lips twisted into a resentful scowl, and white hair cut short. Stranger.

So, Alex was gone, really. Ethan had failed to hold onto him, just like he had done countless times before, with his parents, with Mason, with Madison and Michael, with Christian, with Neil and Martha and Aaron and Nina, and-...

The list was never-ending. His fault, really. He deserved it all. The only difference was that everyone else was truly gone forever, leaving nothing but a trail of faded memories and a burning hole in his chest, but Alex was still there.

He was a stranger, now. But he was there, and Ethan couldn’t help but long for him in spite of all his bitterness and cruelty and the taste of bile souring his breath, and the venomous words that spewed from his lips like drug-induced vomit. He still wanted. Craved.

Alex settled down next to him, stealing the half-empty glass of whiskey from Ethan’s grasp in way of a greeting. He drained it empty of any liquid in only moments, and once he had, Ethan was pressing him into the couch cushions, carefully placing the emptied glass on the coffee table as he sucked another bruise into the collar of yellow-and-purple Alex wore around his neck nowadays.

Because if Ethan couldn’t have his smiles, he’d take his moans instead, and he could pretend to himself that that was enough.

Like a moth to a flame, right?

And then comes the resistance. Where, despite the spark, despite the desire, our lovers valiantly resist the temptation to be together, no matter how much they want each other, they crave each other. Perhaps it’s because of outside influence; the world isn’t made for them and their love, after all. Maybe it's out of a twisted sense of obligation to a controlling family, or a duty they must fulfill.

So resist they might, but the conclusion of it is always painfully inevitable, no matter how much they may strain against it. It is like trying to stop the sun from rising at dawn, or setting at dusk. 

Impossible.

Xander resented Ethan Collins. That was all he felt towards him, he had decided. Resentment. He would refuse to see otherwise.

The past was in the fucking past, and he would like it to fucking stay there, thank you very much. Xander didn’t want him, Christian had wanted him. And he had had him for a while, before he’d royally fucked up, and burnt Ethan’s entire life to the ground, leaving only ashes and a broken shell of a man behind.

…So Xander had decided to let the ex-cop stay in his house for the time being. So what? It wasn’t because he cared for him, it was just… common courtesy.

He didn’t want Ethan, and Ethan sure as hell didn’t want him. That was it. End of story. End of their story, which had been abruptly cut short in the middle of the climax when Xander couldn’t bear it anymore, and had spilled the ink and ripped out the remaining pages.

The End.

….

God, why wasn’t it the end? Why couldn’t he have just left it at that? Why did he let Ethan Collins come into his home and worm his way back into his life again? Why did he have to start a new chapter of something he had already finished? Why, when Ethan dipped a quill into the spilled ink and continued writing their story, was Xander letting him?

No. God, no. He wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t. Even if a tiny, treacherous part of him did still… care somewhat about Ethan. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do anything about it. His house was large enough that he could keep his distance even with Ethan living there.

He missed him. Just a little.

And loathe as he was to admit it, ever since he had decided to cut Christian off, Xander had felt… empty. Hollow. Desperate to fill the steadily-expanding hole in his chest where his heart was supposed to be.

He wouldn’t run back to Ethan Collins, so help him, he would not. Over his dead body would he allow himself to be cradled by that man ever again. That time he had overdosed had been a moment of weakness, one he refused to repeat.

But God, would it be so awful to just try to be amicable? He knew Ethan wanted to. Xander could handle acquaintanceship.

He hadn’t intended for it to get so bad, so complicated, really, he swore he didn’t.

He wasn’t sure what was worse; the fact all of this had happened in the first place, or the fact he didn’t regret any of it.

“Here, ex-cop.” He had handed Ethan a glass, oddly desperate to try and mend whatever had broken between them, despite being the one who had ended everything in the first place. “Get you to loosen up a bit.”

And Ethan had accepted it, terse and wary, but he had. And things only went downhill from there.

Like a moth flitting towards a flame, drawn to the light it emitted, unaware or perhaps uncaring of the burn.

And then we finally, finally have the surrender. When they finally give up denying what they both knew was inevitable, and succumb to their desires. All their thoughts, all their doubts, everything reduced to nothing but I may never get to have you again, but I will for tonight. Even if it's just for one night, one moment, I will have you.

And have each other, they did.

Xander really couldn’t remember who kissed the other first on that fateful night. Because whoever it was, they truly were the one to blame for everything that occurred afterwards, weren’t they? If they hadn’t done it, none of it would have happened.

Or it most likely would have happened anyway. Eventually. You can’t delay the inevitable forever, after all, can you?

Hell, did it even matter who took that first step, that initial hurdle towards their doom? Because whoever did it, the other person kissed them right back, and then someone suggested they take it to Xander’s room, and someone started unbuckling the other person’s belt.

“Alex.” Ethan gasped out into his ear, blunt nails scrabbling at his shoulder blades, knees digging into the sides of his waist. “Je-sus Christ.”

Xander’s next breath came out more like a hiss through clenched teeth. “Sh. You’ll wake the others up. Shhh.”

Ethan let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. “Oh my God, don’t say that. I think I’d die.”

Xander laughed, too, and it shouldn’t have been as funny as it was, but then they were both laughing, Xander’s shoulders shaking and Ethan’s chest heaving.

“You’re kind of cute when you smile, y’know that, ex-cop?” Xander mumbled, leaning down closer into Ethan’s face. 

Ethan bit his lip to conceal his smile, looking coyly up at Xander through dark eyelashes. “Shut up.”

“Nah, I’m serious.” Xander wasn’t sure what he did after that, just that Ethan spent a lot of time biting down into a pillow to stifle the noises Xander had pulled out of him. But what he did know was that when he woke up the next morning, Ethan Collins was in his bed, and firmly, most definitely, back in his life.

So, really, it never did matter. Because in the end, they were both equally to blame for what happened. For how it all ended between them.

They truly were just two moths to a flame at the end, both so desperate for warmth, that they found it in the heat of another person’s body, and stole it away.

And then there’s the brief high point, that part of the story where they are together, and everything is just perfect. The part where every interaction is infused with hope; ever so fragile and delicate, like one wrong move will shatter it all into millions of pieces.

The worst part of it all is that despite the readers knowing what’s to come, knowing they are completely and utterly doomed, chests tightening with dread; our darling little lovebirds really have no idea how fucked over they’ve been by the narrative.

Destined to crash and burn.

Ethan gently, ever-so tenderly weaved the frosty-white lengths of Alex’s hair into a long, thick plait. Just to keep it out of his face, initially. But he remembered the first time he had done it, Alex had stared at it, powder blue eyes huge, and turned his head to the side shyly, and muttered something almost inaudible about it being sort of pretty.

Ethan was always so careful when he did it, so wary of pulling. It wasn’t that Alex would care - he would most likely not even react. And it wasn't like they couldn’t be rough with each other at times, either. 

Ethan had once punched Alex in the face so hard that he’d almost broken his nose. Granted, it was for the purpose of proving Alex innocent in a fight with other inmates, and he had quite literally asked for it. But still. It wasn’t like Alex was a delicate little flower that Ethan insisted on always handling with nothing but the utmost care. He wasn’t. He was tough, hard, from the firm set of his jaw to the furrow of his brows.

It was just that Alex didn’t like having his back to people. It made his shoulders tense up, all of the corded muscles in his body coiled up and ready to strike back just in case somebody else tried to strike first. Wary, bracing himself for that initial hit.

When Ethan was younger, he remembered seeing a stray cat roaming the streets. Scrawny enough for its ribs to be visible through its dirty, matted fur, its hackles raised as it bared tiny, sharp teeth in a hiss.

It would almost certainly bite him if he tried to pet it. It most definitely had worms. But, more importantly, it had looked absolutely starving.

He’d crouched in front of it, digging through his backpack for the leftovers of his ham sandwich from school that day, holding it out in his hand. He didn’t make another move, just waited.

The cat had hissed again, but relaxed ever so slightly when Ethan didn’t show any sign of getting closer to it. It had padded a couple of steps closer to him, and sniffed warily at his extended hand.

Within minutes, the cat was eating out of the palm of his hand, lapping at the lingering aftertaste of ham on his fingers, butting its little head into his other hand when it went to stroke its ratty fur.

Since Alex had killed his father, he had earned himself a reputation. A terrible one. Forget a child who had endured years of abuse and had finally snapped under the unrelenting pressure. No, he was a heartless monster who had killed his own father in cold blood.

It made sense that people could be so wary of him. He towered above most people, all corded, broad-shouldered muscle and scarred knuckles, and eyes like chips of ice. He was as physically intimidating as one could get.

But Ethan knew better.

Alex was a kitten.

So how could Ethan be anything but gentle when Alex allowed him to be out of his line of sight? And to not only do that, but card his fingers through his hair and braid the strands together?

“Hey,” Alex murmured, “Thanks for this, by the way.”

Ethan brushed back a lock of hair that had escaped the braid and was dangling in front of Alex’s face. “Don’t worry about it, man.”

“Mhm.” Alex’s wide shoulders were lax and untensed, because somehow along the way, he had begun to trust Ethan, enough to unwind and soften, thawing like snow at dawn.

Ethan had never realised how much he had treasured that trust until it was gone.

But, like I said, dear readers, that happiness is short-lived. Only a tiny blip of joy in a timeline full of endless grief and suffering. So it sure as hell doesn’t last forever. Perhaps it’s terrible circumstances, perhaps it’s family wars, perhaps it’s just one giant, unfortunate misunderstanding. But things go downhill pretty fucking quickly. Especially for our tragic little moths.

They never stood a goddamn chance.

Alex blinked, perking up as he caught a glimpse of none other than Ethan Collins striding across the bar.

“I’ll be right back, Andrew.”

He glanced back at his cousin, a smile tugging at his lips. Smiling came much easier for him nowadays. Alex had never been one to do so often, even when he was a kid. In all of his childhood photos, he merely stared blankly into the camera with lifeless eyes. But now? He didn’t just smile, but laughed.

Ethan had helped with that.

“I saw a friend of mine.”

“A friend?” Andrew’s thin lips twisted into a pitying smile that resembled more of a sneer rather than something genuinely kind. “You mean Collins, the cop? You think he’s your friend?” His tone was condescending, like Alex was a child who didn’t know better.

Alex felt his own smile fade slightly. He didn’t like when Andrew looked at him like that. It made him feel small and stupid, like that kid sitting at the kitchen table with his maths homework in front of him and his eyes and face burning with humiliation as his father lamented over being burdened with a fucking stupid child. It made Alex feel like Andrew always knew something he didn’t.

“Let me show you how he behaves towards an old friend.”

And then he was up and moving across the bar. Alex got up and followed him hesitantly. He was stunned by Ethan’s reaction.

He recoiled away from Andrew like he was filth he couldn’t bear to touch. “I told you I don’t want to see your face ever again.”

Andrew’s demeanor was placating, unthreatening, yet Ethan was acting as if he would attack him at any moment. “You know I hate you! Get the fuck away from me, you sick son of a-”

Whatever he said next, never reached Alex’s ears, which rang as if Ethan had dropped an actual bombshell on him, not just a figurative one. He wasn’t genuine…

God, he’d always known Ethan had disliked Andrew; he’d always been so pushy about Alex not letting him come during visiting times anymore, only backing off when Alex had finally snapped and told him to stop interfering with his family. Although he’d never been sure what the cause of Ethan’s loathing for Andrew was. His excuse of “I just don’t like how he treats you,” never seemed fully genuine.

He was just pitying me all this time…?

The worst part was that Alex had suspected it. He had, as much as he had tried to tell himself it wasn’t true. He’d earned a reputation of being “Ethan Collins’ bitch” amongst his fellow inmates, hisses about him “sucking him off underneath his fancy fuckin’ desk” following him wherever he went. He’d hated them, the rumours. They made him feel less than. And now to find out Ethan thought he was less than, too?

Why am I always this stupid?

That evening, he’d stood in front of his bathroom mirror, staring at the white that cascaded down his back, his chest wrenching, and imagined, against his will, slender, delicate fingers carefully sectioning his hair and braiding it with a sort of tenderness that Alex had naively allowed himself to get used to. 

He knew then what he needed to do. Andrew had been right this whole time. Ethan had just been trying to push them apart. He’d seen Alex as another accomplishment to put under his belt; the oh-so honourable police officer helping out the heartless killer into redemption. Maybe it’d earn him a goddamn tabloid in the papers. Fuck him. Fuck him to hell.

Alex twisted half of his hair - there was too much of it to fit in one hand - his knife in his other hand and cut it off.

It was too thick to cut through all at once in one clean slice, like it wasn’t going to let him go that easily. Like Ethan wouldn’t let him go that easily. But Alex was dedicated now, and sawed through it with enough determination that soon spirals of white were fluttering onto the bathroom tiles like downy feathers. Then, he repeated the process on the other side.

He stared into the mirror, suddenly feeling kind of light-headed. “Holy shit.” He muttered. His hair used to be halfway down his thighs, he’d been growing it out his entire life. It had been part of who he was, how he differentiated himself from the rest of his family, how he rebelled against his father.

And now it was gone.

He exhaled shakily, his chest shuddering with every breath. Fuck. Fuck. But then, he was flashed with the mental image of Ethan Collins braiding his hair, and he felt so sick that he was glad he did it.

He slammed his palms against the ceramic rim of the sink with finality, glaring at his reflection.

“Fuck you, Collins.” He breathed. “Fuck you.”

So, it’s pretty clear to us, dear readers, that they were beyond fucked up in ways they couldn’t even realise.

They thought they were the picture of a fall from grace. They put far too much importance into themselves and their relationship, an illusion of tragedy and grandeur and a sort of dignity that wasn't truly there. 

In reality, they were just two pathetic, miserable individuals who selfishly used each other to accelerate their mutual self-destruction.

Ethan stared at the bottle of pills with a sort of dryness in his throat. Like sandpaper. Harsh, abrasive, like Alex’s voice after he got sick. It used to be so soft.

Ethan stared at the almost deceptively innocent-looking pills, little red-and-blue capsules, completely misleading considering all of the destruction they had caused. He wondered what made them worth it to Alex. He had watched him seize up, his body wracked with tremors, skin slick with sweat, had licked the taste of iron caused by his bleeding gums off the roof of his mouth, had wiped the vomit dripping down his chin and the tears streaking down his cheeks, and wondered what made it worth it.

Was it worth losing everyone? Miss Diana, Blake, Bitter, Madison, all of them? Was it worth losing himself? Alex didn’t seem remotely happy. Not even close.

Ethan stared down at the capsules. Red and blue. Red and blue like Alex’s bloodshot sclerae surrounding the ice in his irises. Red and blue like police sirens, wailing through the night. Red and blue like blood spilling from the slits in his thighs into the water of the bathtub. 

Red and blue red and blue red and blue. Blue and red. Baby blue eyes glassy and unfocused, and scarlet staining bronzed palms. 

What makes it worth it to you? Ethan thought, turning over one of the pills in his hands. Maybe it was the lack of responsibility that came with it. How everything blurred together so much that Alex didn’t even seem to feel shame anymore. Ethan felt an abundance of guilt every time. Every time they fucked, every time Alex hit him first, and he hit him back even harder, every time Blake gritted his teeth whilst he watched them, every time Madison left the room whenever he entered it. He felt guilt. All-encompassing.

Did Alex feel guilt at all? Did he feel anything at all?

Ethan imagined, just for a moment, swallowing down the pill, to rid himself of the shame that had drenched his skin and soaked into his pores. Just for a moment. But then he put it down, back into its bottle.

And picked up the razor.

How was it that after he had let everything go to shit, he thought he had the right to try and choke down a pill to forget about his problems? How fucking selfish could one man be?

Alex had a scar; mangled discoloured tissue, that wrapped around his throat. Ethan knew Blake was the one who had done it, Alex had mentioned it to him in a hushed tone, but had made him swear not to utter a word to anyone, especially not to Blake. It looked painful. Life-threatening, actually. It must have been pretty traumatising, whether or not Blake wanted to hurt him.

Ethan wondered if sometimes when Blake got a little too close a little too suddenly, if sweat would start to prickle at the back of Alex's neck. If he suddenly found breathing a lot harder. If he felt guilty for being tense, for being wary, but he just couldn’t help it.

It was kind of funny, in a way, that Alex’s trauma was visible, marring his throat, turning what was once white discoloured and greyish, what once was soft skin into rubbery scar tissue. 

Sometimes Ethan felt like he should have a scar, too. Like it didn’t make sense that the skin on his throat was smooth and unblemished, save from the occasional hickey or bite mark. It felt… irrational, at times, to be so afraid of something that hadn’t even left a scar. Sometimes he felt like the imprint of Alex’s hands should be permanently seared into the flesh of his throat. It would feel more reasonable, then. To be afraid.

Alex had a scar around his throat. Ethan turned the razor over in his hand. 

Maybe they could match.

It was then, almost as if he’d known, that Alex burst into the bathroom, his chest heaving. Ethan dropped the razor in shock, and it clattered resoundingly inside the sink. 

“What’re you doing?” Alex demanded. Ethan swallowed. 

“Nothing.” 

“Liar.” He strided up to Ethan, looming over him, bracing his hands on either side of his body, pressing him up against the sink. His eyes narrowed. “What's the razor doing there?”

“I was shaving.” 

“No, you weren't.” His voice was accusing, eyebrows scrunched together. 

“How would you know?” Ethan’s retort came out weaker than he would have liked. The cold ceramic of the sink dug uncomfortably into his lower back. 

“‘Cause if you were, you wouldn’t look so guilty.” Alex reached behind Ethan and snatched up the razor, withdrawing his hand quickly before Ethan could catch his wrist. 

Ethan cursed, grabbing at the blade, but Alex was taller than him and held it up out of reach. Ethan glared up at him. “Give that back.” 

Alex glared right back. “Absolutely not.”

Ethan thought about driving his fist into his stomach, to make him double over so he could take the razor back. 

No. He wouldn’t do that. He didn’t- he wouldn’t hit Alex when it was mostly unwarranted. If Alex struck first, then he’d strike back. That was how they functioned. 

“You’re a fucking pussy, you know that?” Alex spat. “Ready to just kill yourself over something you caused. God, you’re pathetic.” 

Ethan almost flinched at the viciousness of his words. “Shut up.” He said weakly. 

“No, I'm right, aren't I? You're a goddamn coward, ex-cop. You put yourself into this shitty situation, and you’re willing to bail the second the fucking consequences come your way?”

“Shut up.”

“Why? Because you know I'm right?” 

Ethan gritted his teeth. “You know, I was a lot nicer to you when you tried to kill yourself.”

He watched Alex’s features twist and harden. “Don’t try to bring that shit up. I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“What the hell did you expect me to do, leave you there to die?”

Alex scoffed. “I dunno. Maybe. The fuck do you want me to say when you bring shit like that up? Do you expect me to fall to my knees in gratitude and fucking suck your dick, ex-cop?”

Ethan sneered back at him. “You do that anyway, don’t you, baby blue?”

He watched Alex’s jaw tighten, his eye twitching, and knew he had hit a nerve. Sometime whilst they had been talking, Alex’s fingers had started to creep up Ethan’s arm. Ethan didn’t think much of it until thick fingertips pressed into the junction between his shoulder and his neck. He froze up, feeling every drop of blood in his body turn to ice, freezing in his veins.

“Stop that. You’re not funny.” He snapped, trying to recoil away, but to no avail, as he was still trapped up against the sink. 

Alex’s lips curled into a snarl. “What makes you think I'm trying to be funny, ex-cop? I mean what I said. You’re pathetic.” His voice was goading, mean, fingers digging into the side of Ethan's throat, not enough to even hurt, but their mere presence, and the thinly-veiled threat was enough to make Ethan snap. 

“You’re being an asshole.”

Alex laughed a little, mean and harsh, his fingers curling around the back of Ethan’s neck. “And you’re being a little bitch.”

In hindsight, Ethan could say the first punch he threw was completely warranted. The second was pretty reasonable. The third was not as valid, but still understandable. 

Every time he hit Alex after that was not as justified.

He was just so angry, the sort of fury that was so white-hot it burned, bubbling through his veins like molten lava, boiling in his arteries like magma. He wasn’t sure what broke him out of his fear-induced episode of rage, but what he was sure of was the wet, choked out noise that came from the back of Alex’s throat. It sounded like he was gargling shards of broken glass.

Ethan recoiled away, suddenly hyper-aware of the scarlet spattered across the tiles of the bathroom floor, and staining his knuckles. No. “Fuck.”

Alex rolled over onto his hands and knees and puked instead of responding. Ethan had made him puke. He just about managed to regain enough composure to reach forwards and wrap an arm around his waist to stop him from careening face-first into a puddle of his own vomit. “Alex. Alex, fuck, I’m so sorry.”

He could feel how pitchy his voice sounded, almost shrill with panic and guilt, his lungs constricting painfully within his chest . “I’m so sorry.” He practically draped himself over Alex’s back, bowing his head to press his cheek against his spine. “I-” His voice cracked and fractured around the words. “I shouldn’t have-”

“‘S okay.” Alex twisted his arm at an awkward angle in order to reach back and thread his fingers through Ethan’s hair. Ethan’s next breath came out shuddering. Alex being understanding felt so… uncanny. Unreal.

“No. No- Alex, it’s not, it’s not, I- I shouldn’t have done that to you, I-”

“Nah.” Alex snorted, bitter and humourless. “I kinda had that one coming.”

“You didn’t.” Ethan’s eyes burned. He remembered that night - when he had lost it and attacked Christian, beating him until his fists had been raw and bloody. He recalled the guilt he felt afterwards. Guilt. He had been justified in his reaction, after everything Christian had done, he knew that, but-

But.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Okay.” Alex grunted as Ethan sat back up, tugging him with him. He squirmed for a little bit, before sighing in apparent defeat and settling between Ethan’s legs, his back against his chest.

Ethan hooked his chin over his shoulder, clasping his hands over his middle. He doesn’t dare to look at Alex’s face, terrified at what he’ll see.

“Y’know,” Alex said quietly after a moment, “It’s my birthday in two days. I’ll be thirty. Old like you.” His voice was sardonic.

Ethan paused. He’d forgotten about that. “Huh. Yeah, you will be.” He swallowed. “Thirty’s a big age.”

“It is.” Alex was looking at him, Ethan could feel his eyes boring into him, but he kept his own eyes glued onto the blood-splattered tiles. “You gonna get me a present?” 

He was being sarcastic, that much was abundantly clear, yet the more Ethan thought about it, the more he realised he probably should get him something. He wasn’t exactly sure how to describe what he and Alex were. Partners insinuated something more romantic, fuckbuddies was too crude and they certainly weren’t friends, but he had to get him something, right? “Sure I will. What d’you want?”

“I was… obviously kidding, ex-cop.”

“Doesn’t matter. I will. I’ll get you something nice.”

“Will you?” Alex’s voice was dubious, and Ethan recognised the question for what it truly was. Will you still be around for that, or will you kill yourself before then?

“Yeah.” Ethan thought about the first-aid kit under the sink and about how Alex probably needed it, now, thanks to him. “I will.”

The thing is that the moths never do realise how badly the flame is going to hurt them until it's too late. They’re too hypnotised by its light to realise that they’re not fireproof.

And then, finally, we reach the part of the story that nobody likes. The bit that makes people cry, reach for the tissues, hide their faces in the blankets. When the cruel claws of fate reach out and encircle around our doomed lovers, wrapping around them and piercing their delicate, mortal flesh. When they die in each other’s arms. And it is then when the flames of their passion reduces them to nothing but embers.

Because that’s the thing about a tragic love story, right? It has to end in tragedy. It’s in the name.

“Fuck you, ex-cop.” Xander bit out, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes in the hopes that it would relieve some of the pulsing behind them. It did not. “Fuck you.”

He was hunched in on himself on the floor, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, willing his father’s ghost to stop screaming in his ear. It did not.

Ethan Collins stood over him. As per usual. The bastard couldn’t bear to be on equal ground with scum like him for even a moment, could he? He just thought he was so much goddamn better than Xander, didn’t he? Thought he was so much goddamn better than everyone.

“Alex.” Ethan said.

“No.” Xander snapped. “No, no, no- fuck off, fuck off. I hate you. I hate you.”

“I know,” Ethan crouched down, crouched down, so fucking condescending, as per usual, like Xander was a child or his pet. “I know.”

Xander smacked away his outstretched hand, jerking away like he had just been electrocuted. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Alex-”

“No. Leave. Know when you’re not fucking wanted, ex-cop.” Xander watched as Ethan’s hand withdrew, his face hardening, jaw tightening.

“Fuckin’- fine, then. Don’t say I didn’t try to fucking help you, bitch.” Ethan snapped back, getting to his feet and storming out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with something that felt like finality to Xander, although he didn’t know why.

He slowly managed to get to his feet, and opened his cabinet. He just- he just needed a pill. Just one. He just needed all the voices around him to stop trying to slither their way through his ears and into his brain, where they would corrupt and rot away all of his rationality.

He just needed a few pills first. Just a few. Just to get his shit together. 

He rooted through the medicine cabinet until he found what he needed. The pills stuck to the lining of his throat, like they didn’t want to go down, like something was trying to stop them.

He swallowed them, anyway.

Because that’s the thing about moths, isn’t it? They’re vermin. Invasive species. Everybody looks at a butterfly with their pretty, fluttering wings and they melt. Nobody likes moths. Nobody cares if they burn.

Ethan stumbled out of the bar, ambling down the street. He’d put everything on Alex’s tab, as per usual. He was pretty sure he’d paused at one point to bend over and throw up. Only pretty sure. Not certain. He’d spent the whole night at the bar anyhow, of that he was certain. He wondered if this was how Mason felt, if this was what encouraged him to keep drinking. The numbness that crept through your limbs. It made sense, in hindsight, and Ethan kind of hated that.

He paused as he passed by a jewellery store. He was supposed to get him something nice for his birthday, wasn’t he? Something pretty. Would Alex be the one actually paying for it? Technically. But it was the thought that counted or whatever. 

The young woman working there seemed wary of him, which was probably fair. He knew he reeked of alcohol, and his hood was pulled up, and he wore a mask to conceal his face the best he could. Not necessarily very trustworthy-looking.

To her credit, she still did try, offering him a tight smile. “What kind of thing are you looking for, sir?”

Ethan grunted noncommittedly, but then his eyes landed on a small collection of necklaces. Delicate, silver chain, sparkling blue stone. It was… pretty. He didn’t know that much about jewellery, honestly. But it was pretty. “I’ll take that one.”

He paid the bill, and accepted the necklace gift-wrapped, even tied up neatly with a little gold ribbon and a bow.

The house was too quiet when he entered. Logically, it was because everyone was still most likely asleep, dawn having only just arrived, but it felt like a different kind of quiet. Eerily still. The sort of silence you could only find in a cemetery. 

When he opened the door of Alex’s en suite, he was greeted by the sight of him slumped over the sink. Unmoving. Ethan shook his shoulder, and received no response.

“Alex. Hey. Wake up.”

Nothing.

“If you want me to apologise, I’m not going to.”

Not a word.

“Are you giving me the silent treatment again? Is that it?”

Silence.

Ethan swallowed down his dread, and pressed two fingertips into the side of Alex’s neck to check for a pulse. He sighed, all of the air leaving his lungs in one breath. “You really need to stop taking those pills, you know. One of these days it’ll kill you.”

Alex always took a while to wake up, when he passed out like this. Ethan busied himself around the bathroom in the meantime. He washed away the vomit that filled the sink. It took some effort, some elbow grease, it had already started to dry up. He tried not to gag.

“Asshole.” He muttered. “Couldn’t even have puked your guts out in the toilet, eh?”

He dampened a washcloth and used it to carefully wipe away the dried-up bile and saliva that covered Alex’s chin. Wet it again, and used it to wipe away the tear tracks that streaked down his cheeks.

Once he had done the best he could, he settled down onto the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, pulling Alex into his lap. He went so easily, limp and weightless, like a ragdoll.

Ethan huffed. “You’re an asshole, y’know that? Leaving that mess behind for me to clean up. I bet you don’t even feel bad.”

Alex didn’t respond.

Ethan sighed, heavy. “I got you something nice, you know. For your birthday. A necklace. I know you don’t really wear them, but I think it’d look pretty on you. The gemstone is the same colour as your eyes. I’ll give it to you when you wake up.”

Alex was so cold. He’d always run cold, the embodiment of winter itself, like a thin layer of frost had always coated the porcelain of his flesh. He was even colder than usual.

“Thirty is a big age, baby blue. Like you said yourself, you're old like me now.” 

Alex’s head lolled back.

Ethan wasn’t stupid. He’d seen plenty of dead bodies in his lifetime, far more than he’d have liked to. Far more than most. Co-workers, family, friends. He knew what a corpse looked like.

Alex had been dead for a while.

His skin was devoid of any colour, reduced to the sickly complexion of molten wax, like a candle that had been snuffed out too soon. Slack-jawed, eyes distant and glazed over, milky and devoid of anything that had ever suggested life. Some parts of his body were already starting to stiffen.

Ethan stifled a sob, and buried his face in the crook of his neck. “God, fuck you. You can’t just leave me like this. You gave me this whole spiel about not killing myself, and then you go and pull this shit? What the hell am I supposed to do now, huh?”

He dug his fingertips into the prominent spaces between the flare of Alex’s ribs. His tears dripped down and pooled at his clavicle. “Seriously, Alex, we were supposed to be together. You said it yourself. Am I- was I supposed to have saved you? I would have. I swear I would have, if you’d told me. Do you-” 

He choked around his tears, hating the way Alex’s head lolled, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “Am I supposed to follow you? I will. I will, if you tell me you want me to. I’ll kill myself right here, Alex, I-”

He inhaled, shuddering, pain flaring in his chest. “Just tell me what to do. Say something. Please. Please give me something to work with here, Alex, and I’ll do it. We can- we can go to hell together, if you want. I don’t mind burning for the rest of eternity if it’s with you. I promise.”

He sucked in air through his clenched teeth. “Say something, you asshole. Say something.”

Alex said nothing at all. Just stared at nothing with milky eyes, unseeing out into the distance. Gone.

Well, we all know what happens when the moth gets engulfed by the flames. But what if the fire goes out first? What if the light you search for behind someone’s eyes goes out, leaving them dull and lifeless? What if the heat you seek out in another person’s body departs, and they go cold and stiff? What happens when the fire goes out, and you’re left with nothing but smoldering embers and the ashes of painful memories?

Now, wouldn’t you agree with me, dear readers, that that was a tragic end? Hell, Alexander didn’t even get to die in Ethan’s arms. He was too late for that, and found himself cradling a corpse.

But the saddest thing about our wretched little moths, I believe, is that at the end of the day, they both just desperately craved to be loved by somebody.

Maybe in another lifetime, right? 

The night before Alex died was not a particularly eventful one, yet it stuck in Ethan’s mind for the rest of his days. Settled inside his skull, wriggled around in his cranium like maggots in a corpse.

He lay in bed, watching Alex’s silhouette against the window, the way the moonlight illuminated his profile. He was still, so still, knees drawn to his chest, attention pulled to the stars outside.

Like this, he looked softer, younger, as if the gentle silver light the moon provided had washed away all his years of torment, had faded his scars to nothing but memories.

He looked small. Fragile.

Ethan swallowed down the lump in his throat. When Alex spoke, breaking the silence that had enveloped the room, he almost jumped at the suddenness of it.

“I wish you loved me.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say to that. “Oh.”

“I know it’s selfish. I haven’t given you any reason to, and I don’t love you back. But I wish you did. I’m selfish.”

You are. 

Ethan watched Alex’s profile carefully, for some sign of life. His expression was impassive, apathetic. Flat and devoid of emotion, like his tone.

“I want to love you,” Ethan offered quietly. I think I did, once. “That has to count for something, right?”

Alex’s lips twitched into the ghost of a sad smile. “Yeah. Yeah, sure it does, ex-cop.”

A hush fell over them again. Ethan felt like he was reading the last few pages of a book, watching the last twenty minutes of a movie, listening to the final note of a song. Like something was about to end, but he didn’t know what.

“Ethan.” Alex said, and Ethan almost startled at the sound of his name in his mouth. He hadn’t called him that in years, and now it sounded so brittle. So fragile. So broken. Cracked around the edges, bleeding through the crevices.

“Yeah?”

He watched Alex’s throat bob as he swallowed. “I think I’m sick.”

Ethan couldn’t help it. He laughed; harsh, bitter, humourless, because it was so obvious, and yet it was the first time Alex had admitted it. “No shit.”

Then, he felt bad. “Sorry.”

No response. Ethan wanted to hear him speak, to hear his name emerge from his lips again. Just to reassure him that he was still there. He pulled back the sheets a little in invitation, opening his arms. “C’mere.”

Alex finally looked at him, and his shoulders slumped. He didn’t look apathetic anymore, he looked miserable. “‘M too tired right now. Sorry.”

Ethan blinked. “No, no, I- I don’t want to fuck. I just want to hold you.”

Let me hold you. Please. 

For a moment, he thought Alex would decline, would cuss him out and leave, but then he seemed to sag in defeat. He crawled into the space between Ethan’s arms and his chest, and settled there.

Ethan exhaled shakily, and pulled the sheets over them both. Alex didn’t seem intent on moving much himself, which was- which was fine. Ethan manoeuvred them both until Alex’s head was tucked underneath his chin, their legs entangled like the convoluted threads of a spider web.

Alex didn’t have to curl up as much as he used to to fit into Ethan’s arms, now. He was much smaller. More pliant, more limp. Ethan had preferred him as an immovable force. He felt so easily breakable now.

Ethan felt- he felt desperate for any sign of life he could get. Alex was so frail, so unmoving, that he was terrified he would suddenly draw his final breath, and leave Ethan cradling his remnants. 

Ethan allowed the arm he had draped loosely around his waist to tighten, slid his palm up the back of his shirt, and let it glide up and down the too-prominent nobs and ridges of Alex’s spine soothingly.

He let his other hand move up the front of his shirt, up his torso, over the flare of his ribcage, and settle between his pectorals. Alex sighed, a barely-there puff of air against Ethan’s skin. The way each breath of his fanned out against Ethan’s collarbones felt like the only sign of life. That, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath Ethan’s hand.

Ethan paid careful attention to each time his sternum expanded underneath his fingers, to each slow, weak heartbeat that thudded out beneath his palm. He was surprised he was allowed this sort of domesticity. Perhaps Alex had gotten too tired to protest.

His hair was thick and waxy where it brushed against the underside of Ethan’s jaw. He’d wash it for him tomorrow, so it could be clean for his birthday, he decided. Alex hummed noncommittedly when he told him so.

He drifted off quietly, arm slung loosely over Ethan’s waist, face tucked into the crook of his neck. He’d always fallen asleep quicker in Ethan’s arms. Easier. Ethan pulled him closer, careful not to wake him, and buried his face in his hair. Inhaled. Exhaled. 

Please don’t leave me.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of Alex’s head. Inhaled. Exhaled.

“Sweet dreams, baby blue.”