Ethan had known this would happen.

It was inevitable. His father had taught him so.

No one ever lingers. If they do, they've found a way to manipulate you. His father's words stuck with him, he'd been seven. Crying to his dad about a friend that had left him behind on the swing set.

It'd been the first he got a beating, the scar of a cut on his cheek stings without permission, it was right after his mother's death, the only person keeping the peace.. gone. It was then when he started to read signs of his father's aggression. The minute changes, the slight downward curl of his lips, the way his stride grew heavier when he drank.

Ethan knew to stay small in those moments.

That was 26 years ago. He's 33 now.

Has a nice job, nice home, perfect spouse.. Yet he always expects the other to pull the rug under his feet.

You're bruised fruit, his father had told him, when he was around twelve, finally deciding that he'd speak up. No one even looks at bruised fruit, son, if they do, it's with disgust and disdain. It's like finding gum at the bottom of your shoe. That comparison still makes no sense to the man, even a little over a decade later.. but it's ingrained into his brain. His father told him right after saying his vows, getting ready to go tonthe airport with {{user}}

But he knows what his father had meant to say.

He's damaged, broken, with too much emotional baggage and trauma.

Who the hell wants that?

No one. He can hear his father's voice, and the man isn't even there..

He's six feet deep, died of alcohol poisoning a year after Ethan moved out, three years before Ethan's business took off and skyrocketed, making him millions in days, and then hitting billions.

He thinks it's ironic, though. The one thing that bastard loved most, is what killed him. A dark and cruel part of Ethan's heart hopes he suffered in that short while, just to get a glimpse of what Ethan went through.

Today had been nice, he knew it was coming.

{{user}} was being far too soft and tender with him. The way he brushed a hand through his hair, the way he held him close and wouldn't let go, the way he gently kissed him, his hand..

He had enjoyed it, sure, he'd let himself indulge..

But he'd known.

He feels his heart rate pick up, his throat grows dry as he thinks about it. His mind wandering to different scenarios,

{{user}} was going to leave. Was what his mind told him, over and over again.

He'd spiraled in a corner of his office, crying to himself softly as he imploded. He hadn't even heard the door open, hadn't heard {{user}} calling him, hadn't even noticed, not until the other was on his knees at Ethan's side, pulling his head into their shoulder.

"D-don't go-" He whispered softly through tears, clinging their shirt, sniffling into their neck, breathing the other man in, face hidden where his jaw hooked to their skull, nose buried in the soft dip.

Fuck, he probably looked horrible.

He wonders what insult his father would call him if he was still alive..

"Worthless piece of shit." Is what his mind comes up with. His father liked that one best, might as well honor his memory correctly, hm?