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Joel stared at the empty glass in his hand, his knuckles whitening as his grip tightened. The words echoed in his mind, haunting and heavy. "I wanna worship you. Make you feel brand new." Etho’s voice, soft yet commanding, looped in his thoughts like a hymn he could never unhear.
It wasn’t just the tone, but the weight behind it—the way it pulled him in, suffocated him with devotion and longing.
Joel had never wanted anything more than he wanted Etho’s approval, Etho’s attention, Etho’s love.
He’d give everything for him. Every piece of himself, every drop of blood, every fractured thought in his broken mind. To be on his knees, worshiping the man who made him feel seen, truly seen, felt like his only purpose. Etho had a way of making him feel like nothing and everything all at once, and Joel would trade his soul to keep that feeling.
To see Etho smile, to hear that low, soothing voice praise him.
The thought of it burned through him like fire. His body ached with a need so profound it bordered on desperation. Joel wanted to give himself completely, to break apart and let Etho put him back together however he saw fit. He’d die for him without a second thought.
No hesitation, no regrets.
Life had always felt so empty, so useless, except when Etho was near. If death meant being tied to him forever, Joel would embrace it with open arms.
The jokes—the casual way they talked about it—always lingered in his mind. Etho’s promises, half-laughing and half-serious, stuck to him like glue. “If you’re going, I’m going too.” Joel would laugh, a strained, hollow sound, but deep down, he clung to those words like a lifeline. Whether Etho meant them or not didn’t matter.
What mattered was that Joel believed them, felt the truth in them even if it wasn’t there.
Lizzie hated it.
She hated the way Joel brushed off every minor inconvenience with a quip about ending it all, hated the way he laughed about double suicides as if it were a joke.
But it wasn’t a joke. Not to Joel. It was a promise, a plan, an escape he’d thought about far more than anyone realised. And Etho—Etho always played along.
Joel didn’t know if it was real. If Etho meant it, if he’d actually follow him into the abyss, but the possibility was enough. It was enough to keep Joel tied to him, obsessed with the idea that, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to be alone in death. That Etho’s quiet, steady presence would follow him even into the dark.
He tilted his head back, his mind spinning with the weight of it all.
The devotion, the betrayal, the way his wife’s anger burned against the cold promise Etho offered. Joel didn’t care anymore. The lines between love, obsession, and destruction blurred until nothing else mattered.
If Lizzie knew, truly knew, how far Joel was willing to go, how deeply he was entwined in Etho’s quiet pull, she’d leave him in an instant. But that didn’t scare him. Nothing scared him anymore except the thought of being alone.
Alone in life. Alone in death.
And if he had to drag Lizzie down with him, if he had to take Etho’s hand and pull them all into the void, then so be it. At least then, Joel thought, he wouldn’t have to face the darkness on his own.
Lizzie had always known. Of course, she had. She wasn’t stupid, and Joel had never been a particularly good liar.
From the moment the universe had tied them all together—her, Joel, and Etho—bound by some cosmic blood-thread, she had felt the weight of it. It wasn’t the connection that hurt; it wasn’t even that Joel had found Etho in a way that she could never touch.
It was what it did to him.
What it did to her.
They’d been high school sweethearts, her and Joel. A picture-perfect story, the kind everyone liked to believe in. They’d grown up together, fumbled through the awkward stages of life hand in hand. She’d loved him so deeply then, in a way that felt pure and unshakable. And when they’d married, she’d thought that love would be enough to carry them through anything.
But then Etho had happened.
Or, rather, Etho had always been there, waiting on the edges of Joel’s life like a shadow. She hadn’t minded at first. She even tried to see it as a good thing, convincing herself that if Joel loved Etho, too, maybe their shared connection would make them all stronger.
But it didn’t.
She hated it.
Hated the way Etho’s presence twisted Joel into someone she barely recognized. Hated the way Etho could draw him into those dark, dangerous thoughts with just a word, a look. Hated how easily Joel was ready to give up everything—her, their life together, even himself—if Etho so much as snapped his fingers.
They’d sit together, the three of them, at the dinner table, and she’d feel it like a weight pressing down on her chest. Joel would push his food around his plate, his eyes dull and far away, his thoughts written all over his face. She didn’t need to ask what he was thinking. She already knew. That blank, glazed-over look in his eyes wasn’t new.
It was the same look he got when the intrusive thoughts crept in, the same look that meant he was contemplating his own life, or lack of it.
And Etho—Etho always knew, too.
There was something in the way he watched Joel, quiet and calculating, his expression unreadable but his intent well- there. Lizzie hated how Etho fueled those thoughts, whether intentionally or not. Sometimes it was subtle, a quiet agreement or a half-joke that planted seeds Joel didn’t need.
Other times, it was bolder, a casual, "If you go, I’ll go," thrown out like it didn’t mean anything.
But it did. To Joel, it meant everything.
Lizzie couldn’t say anything. What was there to say? She knew better than to give voice to Joel’s darkness, to the swirling mess of suicidal ideation and obsession that Etho seemed to both feed and soothe.
Calling it out would only make it worse, would make Joel spiral further. She couldn’t risk that.
Instead, she held it all in.
She’d bite her tongue as Joel and Etho exchanged those looks, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist when they were together.
She’d force a smile and try to bring Joel back to the present, try to anchor him to her, to their life, to something solid. But it was like trying to hold onto water. The harder she tried, the more he slipped through her fingers.
Joel had them both—her and Etho.
And yet, even with everything, she could still see it in his eyes. That emptiness. That creeping void that no amount of love could fill. Lizzie wanted to hate him for it, wanted to hate Etho for the role he played, but more than anything, she hated herself.
Because no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried to love Joel, she couldn’t stop him from drifting closer to the edge. And she couldn’t stop Etho from pulling him there.
The table was quiet, save for the faint clink of silverware against plates. Lizzie sat across from Joel, her fork hovering over her food, though she’d long since lost her appetite. Joel wasn’t eating, not really. He pushed the mashed potatoes across his plate with the tines of his fork, his movements mechanical and distant, his eyes staring at something far beyond the room.
“Joel,” Lizzie said softly, breaking the heavy silence. Her voice was gentle, almost pleading. “You’ve barely touched your food. You need to eat something.”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance up. His hand continued its monotonous motion, the potatoes smearing into a sad, uneven pile. Lizzie’s chest tightened as she watched him, her own hand lowering her fork to the table.
“You’ve been quiet all night,” she tried again, her voice cracking slightly as she forced a smile. “Come on, love, talk to me. What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Still, nothing. Just that vacant, glassy stare.
It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him like this, but it never got easier. That look—so hollow, so far away—twisted her stomach in knots.
“Joel,” Etho’s voice came next, calm and steady, his tone like a soft ripple across the stillness. He sat to Joel’s right, leaning slightly toward him, his posture relaxed but his eyes focused. “She’s right. You haven’t said a word all night. What’s going on?”
The contrast between Etho’s casual tone and Lizzie’s growing unease felt almost surreal. Etho wasn’t unkind—far from it—but his approach always seemed too light, too easy. As if he didn’t fully grasp the weight of the situation.
Or worse, as if he did, and he didn’t mind carrying it.
Joel blinked slowly, but his gaze didn’t shift. His fork stilled on the plate, but he didn’t answer. His lips parted slightly, as though he might speak, but no words came out.
Lizzie leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table now as her concern overtook any sense of decorum. “Joel,” she said again, more firmly this time. “Please. Just say something. Anything.” Her voice wavered at the end, betraying the calm façade she was trying so hard to maintain.
Etho gave a faint nod, as if agreeing with her, before reaching out to nudge Joel’s arm lightly with his elbow. “Hey,” he murmured. “You’re scaring her, man. Talk to us.”
Lizzie hated that it worked—hated how Etho could get away with saying things so bluntly when she had to tread carefully, terrified of saying the wrong thing and pushing Joel further into his own mind. Joel’s shoulders twitched slightly at the nudge, a faint reaction, but still, he said nothing.
The silence was unbearable, a suffocating weight pressing down on the room. Lizzie clenched her hands together under the table, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the rising panic in her chest. She hated this. Hated the helplessness, the way Joel shut them out entirely, lost in that sick, twisting dissociation she couldn’t pull him out of.
“Joel,” Etho tried again, his voice softer now, more insistent. “You don’t have to bottle everything up, you know. We’re here. We care about you. Just… let us in.”
Lizzie wanted to scream, wanted to shake Joel, wanted to do something to pull him out of the dark spiral she could see consuming him. But she knew better. She knew that no amount of pleading or coaxing would work if he wasn’t ready to let them in.
And yet, watching Etho try—watching him nudge Joel both physically and emotionally, his words quiet but weighted with meaning—it was like a knife twisting in her chest. Etho could get closer to Joel in ways she couldn’t, but even Etho couldn’t always reach him when he was like this.
Joel’s hand twitched slightly, his fork clattering against the edge of his plate before falling silent again. Lizzie’s breath caught, her eyes darting between him and Etho, waiting, hoping for some sign that he was coming back to them.
But Joel just sat there, silent and still, the glaze in his eyes a cruel reminder of how far away he truly was.
"I'm just... tired."
Joel's voice was a hollow murmur, barely audible over the ambient quiet of the room. His fork clattered to the plate as his hand fell limply to his lap, and he slumped forward slightly, his shoulders sagging under a weight neither Lizzie nor Etho could physically see but both understood all too well.
Lizzie’s breath hitched at the words, her chest tightening painfully. That phrase—it was always that phrase. Not tired in the usual way, not the exhaustion of a long day or a restless night. No, this was the other kind, the terrifying kind. The one that meant Joel was teetering on the brink again, staring into the abyss with a resignation that chilled her to her core.
Etho shifted beside him, his hand halfway to Joel’s arm as he prepared to speak, his voice already forming words of quiet reassurance. But Lizzie didn’t let him. She cut him off before he could say anything, her voice sharp with desperation.
"Talk to us," she pleaded, leaning forward as her hands gripped the edge of the table. "Talk to me, Joel. Please, honey, please..." Her voice cracked, the raw emotion breaking through her carefully constructed calm.
Joel flinched slightly at her tone, his eyes flickering up to meet hers for the briefest of moments before dropping back to the table. There was something in his gaze—a glimmer of guilt, perhaps, or maybe just the faintest flicker of awareness that he was hurting her. But it wasn’t enough to pull him out of his spiral.
"I don’t know what to say," he muttered, his voice barely louder than a whisper. He still wouldn’t look at her, his fingers twisting together in his lap, fidgeting as though he were trying to find some anchor to keep himself grounded.
"Say anything," Lizzie urged, her voice trembling as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. "Please, Joel. Don’t shut us out. Don’t shut me out. I can’t—" Her voice broke, and she had to stop, swallowing hard as she tried to steady herself.
Etho stayed silent beside Joel, his expression unreadable, but Lizzie could feel his presence like a steadying force in the room. She didn’t look at him, couldn’t bring herself to. If she did, she might lose the tenuous grip she had on her emotions.
Joel sighed, the sound heavy and laden with all the things he wasn’t saying. "It’s just... hard," he murmured, his words vague but weighted.
"Hard how?" Lizzie pressed, her voice gentler now but no less urgent. "Joel, you have to give me more than that. You can’t keep doing this to yourself—to us."
"I don’t mean to," he said quietly, his hands still fidgeting in his lap. "I just... I don’t know how to stop. It’s like... like there’s this... hole in me, and no matter what I do, I can’t fill it. I can’t—" His voice cracked, and he stopped, his shoulders trembling slightly as he took a shaky breath.
Lizzie reached out then, her hand covering his, stilling his restless movements. "You don’t have to do it alone," she said, her voice soft but firm. "That’s why we’re here. Me, Etho... we’re here, Joel. But you have to let us in. You have to let us help you."
Joel’s fingers twitched under hers, but he didn’t pull away. For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at their joined hands, his breath shallow and uneven.
Etho finally spoke then, his voice low and calm. "She’s right, Joel. You don’t have to carry this on your own. We’re not going anywhere. You know that, don’t you?"
Joel nodded faintly, but the tension in his posture didn’t ease. Lizzie squeezed his hand gently, her other hand reaching to wipe at her eyes.
"We love you," she whispered. "Both of us. And we’re not going to stop fighting for you, even when you can’t fight for yourself."
The silence that followed was heavy but not entirely empty. Joel didn’t respond, but his hand tightened ever so slightly around Lizzie’s. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
"How bad is it?"
Etho's voice cut through the thick tension like a blade, blunt and unyielding. His words hung in the air, sharp and starkly matter-of-fact, a question that left no room for misinterpretation.
Lizzie froze for a moment, her hand tightening on her fork until her knuckles turned white. She wanted to slap him—God, how she wanted to slap him. To reach across the table, tear that stupid mask off his face, and demand he act like a real, emotional human being for once.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
This was just how Etho was. He wasn’t an emotional man, not in the way Lizzie thought Joel needed right now. Etho dealt in logic, in practicality, in cutting through the noise to get to the root of the problem. She knew that. She’d always known that. But it didn’t stop the frustration from bubbling up inside her, burning hot and raw.
Her glare shot across the table like a warning shot, and Etho, to his credit, glanced away under its weight. Not out of guilt, she knew, but perhaps an unspoken acknowledgment that his words had landed harshly.
But then something unexpected happened. Joel spoke.
"Can’t we just—I don’t know, forget about this and distract me in be—"
"I’m not having sex with you while you’re thinking about committing suicide, Joel," Lizzie blurted out, her voice sharp and cutting, the words spilling out before she could stop them.
The room fell into stunned silence, the weight of her statement settling over them like a suffocating blanket. Etho straightened slightly, his eyes darting between Joel and Lizzie, but he didn’t say anything.
Joel flinched, his head snapping up to finally meet Lizzie’s gaze. For a brief moment, there was something like shock in his expression, as though her bluntness had managed to cut through the fog of his dissociation. But it didn’t last. His lips twisted into something between a grimace and a bitter smile, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Well, that’s one way to put it," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Lizzie didn’t back down. She leaned forward instead, her eyes blazing with a mix of anger and desperation. "Don’t joke about this, Joel. Don’t you dare. This isn’t something you can just brush off or ignore. You’re hurting, and we’re trying to help you, but you have to let us. You can’t just—"
"Just what?" Joel interrupted, his voice rising slightly as he gestured vaguely with one hand. "Just pretend it’s not happening? Just push it all down and keep going like everything’s fine? Because that’s what I’ve been doing, Lizzie, and it’s not working!"
"I know it’s not working!" she snapped back, her voice cracking. "That’s why we’re here, Joel! That’s why we’re trying so hard to—" She stopped herself, taking a shaky breath and closing her eyes for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer but no less firm. "You can’t keep shutting us out. You can’t keep pretending like this isn’t tearing you apart."
Etho finally spoke up then, his voice low and steady. "She’s right, Joel. You’re not going to get through this alone. You need to let us in."
Joel let out a bitter laugh, his head falling into his hands. "Let you in," he mumbled, his voice muffled. "I don’t even know where to start. It’s just... too much."
"Then start small," Lizzie urged, her voice trembling. "Just one thing, Joel. One thing you’re feeling right now. Tell us."
He didn’t respond immediately. The room was filled with the sound of his uneven breathing, and for a moment, Lizzie thought he might shut down again. But then he lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy.
"I feel... like I’m drowning," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like no matter how hard I try, I can’t get my head above water. And I’m so... tired of fighting it."
Lizzie reached out across the table, her hand covering his. "Then stop fighting alone," she said, her voice breaking. "Let us help you, Joel. Please."
Joel’s gaze flickered between her and Etho, his expression torn. He didn’t answer, but for the first time that night, there was a hint of something in his eyes—a glimmer of recognition, of understanding.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
"So... no sex?" Joel finally broke the heavy silence, his voice dry and laced with an edge of forced humour. His lips quirked upward in a hollow semblance of a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Lizzie groaned audibly, her head dropping into her hands as she rubbed her temples. This wasn’t what she wanted from him. She wanted him to open up, to talk about what was really going on inside his head—not deflect with awkward jokes and half-hearted attempts to sidestep the conversation.
"Joel," she started, her tone sharp with frustration, "this isn’t—"
"I mean," Etho interrupted softly, barely looking up from his plate as he murmured under his breath, "if no one else is taking the offer, I will."
Lizzie’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could cut through stone. "Etho."
He glanced up at her, his expression hidden beneath his mask but his posture exuding an infuriating casualness. "What?" he asked innocently, though the slight tilt of his head betrayed his amusement.
"Shut up," Lizzie snapped, her voice firm and tinged with exasperation. "Eat your dinner, or I swear you’re sleeping on the sofa tonight."
Etho raised his hands in mock surrender, his fork still clutched in one. "Alright, alright," he muttered, turning back to his plate. "Message received."
Joel let out a faint chuckle, the sound dry and humourless, but it was still something. He glanced between the two of them, his smirk fading into something softer, almost wistful. "You two really know how to kill a mood," he said lightly, though his voice carried an undercurrent of something darker.
Lizzie softened slightly at the sound of his voice, though her frustration didn’t entirely dissipate. "Joel," she said, leaning forward again, her tone gentler this time, "please. We’re trying to help you. You can’t keep deflecting like this."
Joel’s gaze dropped back to his plate, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his fork. "I know," he murmured. "I just... I don’t know how to do this. Talking about it. It’s easier to make jokes than to—" He cut himself off, his shoulders slumping.
Lizzie reached out, her hand brushing against his. "It’s not supposed to be easy," she said softly. "But we’re here for you. We’ll help you through it, no matter how long it takes. You just have to let us."
Etho, surprisingly, didn’t say anything this time. He simply nodded, his gaze steady as he looked at Joel, his presence quiet but reassuring.
Joel sighed, his fingers stilling under Lizzie’s hand. "I’m trying," he whispered. "I really am."
Lizzie squeezed his hand gently. "That’s all we can ask for."
For a moment, the room was quiet again, the tension easing slightly but not disappearing entirely. Joel picked up his fork, his movements slow and tentative, and took a small bite of his food.
"...Are you sure you don’t want me to have my mouth on something else?" Joel asked, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, his brow quirked in a mock challenge.
Lizzie didn’t even dignify him with a full response at first. Instead, she gave him a slow, deliberate once-over, her expression one of utter unimpressed disdain. Finally, she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Eat your dinner," she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Or it’s the sofa for you too. Separate rooms. You’ll be in the garage."
Joel’s smirk faltered, his expression shifting to one of mock horror. "The garage? Lizzie, that’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?"
"I know what you two are like," she continued, ignoring his protest entirely. "Like rabbits. I leave you alone for five minutes, and suddenly I have to disinfect every surface in this house."
Joel sputtered, his face flushing slightly as he opened his mouth to argue. "That is not true! We—"
Etho, who had been quietly sipping his drink, suddenly choked, the liquid catching in his throat as he tried and failed to suppress a laugh. He wiped at his mask with the back of his hand, his eyes crinkling in amusement.
"You know, that’s kind of unfair," Etho said, his voice tinged with poorly suppressed laughter. "We’re not that bad."
Lizzie turned her glare on him now, and Etho raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, maybe we’re a little bad," he admitted, his tone light, "but rabbits? That feels excessive."
Joel leaned toward Etho, his expression one of faux indignation. "You hear this slander, Etho? Rabbits. As if we’re not discreet and civilised."
"Discreet?" Lizzie interjected, her voice rising slightly as she gestured toward them with her fork. "You two disappeared for forty-five minutes during my book club last week! Forty-five minutes! Don’t think I didn’t hear the excuses when you came back."
Joel winced, glancing sideways at Etho, who suddenly found his plate very interesting. "Uh, I mean..." Joel began, scratching the back of his neck. "We were just... catching up?"
Lizzie let out a sharp, exasperated sigh, shaking her head. "Garage," she repeated firmly. "Don’t test me."
Joel slumped back in his chair, his smirk finally giving way to a sheepish grin. "Fine, fine. I’ll eat." He stabbed a piece of food on his plate with his fork and held it up in a show of compliance.
Etho leaned over slightly, murmuring just loud enough for Joel to hear, "She’s scarier than you are when she’s mad."
Joel shot him a look but said nothing, shoving the food into his mouth as Lizzie watched them both like a hawk.
Satisfied—for now—Lizzie sighed and picked up her fork again. "Honestly," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else, "it’s like raising two overgrown children."
Joel and Etho exchanged a quick glance but wisely stayed silent, focusing on their plates. Lizzie’s threat of the garage still loomed large, and neither of them was eager to test her patience any further.
Etho finished eating first, as he always did.
His movements were quick, efficient, the way he seemed to do everything—always in control, always a step ahead. He placed his plate and utensils neatly into the sink, rinsing them with a quiet precision before reaching up to pull his mask back over his nose, the motion casual, like he was slipping into a well-rehearsed role.
As he straightened, he paused in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a slight smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "So..." he started, his tone dripping with mischief, "...no one wanting a creampie?"
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Lizzie, who had just been wiping down the table, froze. She didn’t even look at him, her eyes narrowing slightly as she exhaled in frustration.
Joel, on the other hand, couldn’t help himself. He snorted loudly, half-choking on his drink as his laugh came out in a harsh burst. “Jesus, Etho,” he managed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Seriously?"
Etho simply leaned in a little more, clearly enjoying the effect his words had. "What? Just asking," he said with an exaggerated shrug, feigning innocence.
Lizzie, her patience wearing thin, shot them both down before the conversation could get any further. "Etho," she said firmly, crossing her arms over her chest, "you're in the living room tonight. Joel, you're not leaving my eyes, Mr."
Joel shot her a mock-pout. "C’mon, I’m fine. Just a little distraction. A little fun..."
Lizzie gave him a pointed look, the one she reserved for when she was at the end of her rope. "No. We’re not doing this tonight. You’re staying with me." She turned her attention back to Etho, who was still smirking, as if he hadn’t been adequately scolded. "I swear, you two are impossible."
Etho raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I’m just trying to keep things light. You know, inject some fun into the mood." His grin never faltered, even as Lizzie’s glare intensified.
Joel let out another chuckle, clearly enjoying the banter despite the tension hanging in the air. "I swear, Etho, you could make a joke about anything and still get away with it. Lizzie’s just mad she didn’t think of it first."
Lizzie glared at them both, but her lips twitched upward in spite of herself. She didn’t want to laugh, didn’t want to give them that satisfaction, but she couldn’t help it. The ridiculousness of it all, the absurdity, was just too much.
But she held her ground. "I mean it. No more games tonight," she said firmly, her voice softening only slightly as she looked at Joel. "We’re all gonna sit down, talk, and—"
"Maybe we can talk while I’m sitting on the couch?" Etho interrupted with a sly grin. "You know, because I’m totally just in the living room..."
Lizzie shot him another glare, her hand going up in exasperation. "I swear to God, Etho."
Joel, sensing Lizzie’s growing frustration, smiled and patted the table lightly. "Alright, alright. You win, Lizzie. I’ll stay put," he said, raising his hands in mock defeat.
But Etho, ever the instigator, wasn’t done yet. "I’ll just make myself comfortable in the living room then, shall I?" he said, his tone light, but the underlying smirk on his face suggested he was anything but serious.
Lizzie rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath as she turned to finish cleaning up. Despite everything, despite the frustration and the serious undertones of their earlier conversation, she couldn’t help but feel the slightest flicker of relief. At least they were still here.
Still talking. Still fighting. And somehow, that was good enough for now.