#I love giving Etho anxiety disorders < 3

[birrdies]

wpuld u consider “I can keep you safe, they’re all afraid of me.” For shadowrot? or really any Cleo ship. because she’s so scary…

Win Secret Life.

There's a certain peace that should come with knowing you'll lose. Etho's not fool enough to believe it's feasible to win; for him, anyway. But that does nothing to dampen the panic, burning bright through him and setting every nerve-ending alight. It's a familiar panic that slips back into his bloodstream, almost like it'd never left. The fear that comes with dwindling numbers, rolling thunder claps, and each audible heartbeat pounding in Etho's ears.

A wild animal that knows it's about to die won't just take it lying down, even if it knows fighting is futile. It'll still gnash its teeth and swipe its claws at anything that moves in its periphery, anything that gets too close or backs it into a corner. And Etho can't help but shake like one, pacing in the same stretch of grass until it flattens to dirt, churning every possible move in his head. A chessboard only Etho's been dropped in halfway through the game and he doesn't know where half the pieces are.

The task book weighs a million pounds, strapped to his waist, where the words taunt him again and again.

Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life. Win Secret Life.

"Hey—"

Their base had been overrun, what little defenses they'd managed to build ripped to pieces. It's not safe there, really, but it's not safe anywhere. Least of all out here in the open, the night sky an oppressive, suffocating weight draped over him, rivaled only by the silent stone statue at his back, hands outstretched, non-existent eyes cold and empty. This place is crawling with red names, it'd only take a second for them to come raining down upon him like hellfire.

"Etho."

Grian's gone, too. Not gone gone, but somewhere Etho can't see him, which is almost just as bad. That panic is an unfamiliar one that sinks its teeth into him, like the cornered animal is trapped somewhere inside of him instead, desperately trying to chew its way out. It's always been just him, by the end. He's had allies, sure— beneficial things to have, like weapons or gunpowder or redstone— but if he'd end up alone that would've been fine.

Would have been.

Where the hell is Grian?

"Etho!"

He stumbles, ripping from his mindless pacing by a pair of wide, heavy hands gripping him by the shoulders. Pale, green fingers twist into the fur lining Etho's collar. He stares at those hands, taking longer than it should have to remember that they belong to someone. He lifts his head, eyes suddenly heavy and tired as he faces Cleo whilst simultaneously avoiding her gaze.

With nowhere to go, his legs stagnant, the anxiety festers. A burst of kinetic energy bubbling underneath his skin like a boiling pot with the lid left over it. He tries not to shake. He doesn't know if it works.

"Cleo," he says, swallowing a gasp his body tries to force out. "We've gotta— We need to find somewhere to set up, fortify. Maybe team up with Bdubs and the others— we're outnumbered. They're stacked, they've got Gem, Joel, Scott—"

"Etho, stop." Cleo jostles him by the shoulders, pulling him in close enough that he couldn't squirrel away even if he tried. Her eyes are red. Nauseatingly red, so deep Etho can't believe he hadn't noticed them before now. "Stop, you need to calm down."

"If we don't act now it will be too late," Etho says, reaching for Cleo's wrists, though he's not confident whether it's to push her off or steady himself. Either way once his fingers have found her pulse point, he can't bring himself to let them go.

Cleo's face, usually stone carved sharper than any sword's edge, softens. Her eyes dim, her mouth tilts up at the corner, and she loosens her grip on his collar. The only thing keeping her hands there at his neck are Etho's. Now he's shaking.

"It's already too late," she says, and its the kind of news that should be delivered with a somber, hung head and the unspoken apology too dense to ignore, let alone breathe through. But Cleo's not sorry. She's smiling at him and he's never seen her more relaxed.

It terrifies him.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "No, it's not. We're still here. We can— We can do something, we just gotta find Grian."

"And do what?" Cleo says, raising an eyebrow at him. Her heartbeat is steady. Calm. Everything a red name at the end of their rope shouldn't be. "Aren't you tired of dying scared and alone and desperate?"

I'm tired of dying, Etho can't bring himself to say. I'm tired of trying and it never being good enough.

Instead, all he can do is nod.

"Then let's go out our way." Cleo grins at him, and it's the first thing to loosen that iron-like grip his ribs have on his heart. "Y'know, causing mayhem, being nasty."

It's tempting. There's few others (if any) Etho'd rather spend his final hours with. Because these are the final ones, if they even have that long, and no amount of panicking or planning or trap-setting will undo the scales that've been tilted against them from the beginning. But the thing about scared animals is that they're stubborn. And no matter how much he wants to give in and let go, he'll never be able to rid himself of that instinct. Not to win, but to survive.

"But the others— They'll be on our tail the whole time." What if they don't have the time to do anything? To live their final moments how they want; just because you don't want to fight doesn't mean everyone else will spare you the same courtesy.

"I'm not scared of some bumbling red names," Cleo says, her words as vicious as they are confident as she finally lets him go, forcing him to drop his hands down by his sides. But she doesn't leave him. She stays right there, within arm's reach, as she tugs free a flint-and-steel from her pocket. "I can keep you safe. For now, anyway. They're all afraid of me."

The laugh that bubbles out of Etho is a quiet, private one that hurts coming up. But he wouldn't have it any other way. "You are pretty scary, Cleo," he says. "What do you wanna do?"

"I think burning Scar's house is a good start," she says, flipping the flint-and-steel in her hand before activating it, watching the small flame dance.