#maelgwyn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charlieknighte · 2 years ago

Text

little crimes

Ethan Hitchcock/Maelgwyn

Modern AU - University AU - Fake/Pretend Relationship - Pining - Getting together (kinda) - Family Drama - Silly hockey rivalries

13,060 words

A gift for Matt Prairiecryptid in the Secret Samol fandome exchange <3

content warnings: unhealthy family dynamics

If Maelgwyn has to bear another holiday with his family, he may as well have his shitty boyfriend-for-hire at his back—but things aren't so simple when it feels like his stupid little crush could toe any number of the lines that box in his life.

Despite all of the faults of the horrid little basement suite that the Six call their hideout, Maelgwyn feels his shoulders relax the moment he slips inside. It’s a glorified boiler room in nearly all respects, with its bare cement floor covered in cheap faux-Persian rugs and its walls lined in Ikea bookshelves—and yet he’s spent more time here than his own apartment in the past year, huddling around the space heater on beanbag chairs or the shitty futon, passing around beer and joints with his friends. It’s more of a home than anyplace he’s ever lived.

The smell of clove cigarettes hits him immediately—one of the Hitchcocks has been smoking with one of the tiny metal-rimmed windows open, unsuccessfully venting the smoke. It hovers somewhere above eye level, filling the L-shaped apartment. Maelgwyn tries not to cough, eyes watering. “ Bonsoir ,” says the Hitchcock, in an exaggerated Quebecois accent that’s pushing reality even for him. “To whom do I owe ze pleasure?” He waves a hand at Maelgwyn over his computer setup. The back of his monitor faces the door, his desk—along with his brother’s—creating a divider along a corner of the room, doing a poor job of hiding their beds from prying eyes. Maelgwyn’s chest flutters despite himself. He sternly tells it to be quiet. He can’t even be sure which twin this is yet.

“It’s me. Cut that out,” he says, picking his way through the various books and beanbags and articles of clothing littering the floor. The moment he rounds the corner of the desk, the Hitchcock tugs out his earbuds, leaning back in his godawful gaming chair and folding his hands over his stomach. He has a beanie crammed low over his eyes, curls escaping on all sides, and he’s inexplicably wearing jeans in the comfort of his own home. Maelgwyn had expected the need to linger, scrutinizing the planes of his face and the details of his nervous habits to distinguish who he’s dealing with, but in the end he doesn’t have to. Hitchcock breaks out into a stupid grin at the sight of him—a grin that draws him in closer, inviting him to laugh at an inside joke with him. God forbid Edmund would look at him like that. Maelgwyn has to tell his chest to be quiet again.

“Ethan,” Maelgwyn says carefully. He leans against the desk, trying not to stare too contemptuously at the game of Fortnite that he had so generously paused for him. “Christmas is coming up.”

The Six will be enveloped into Aubrey’s extended family for Christmas, as always. Maelgwyn desperately wishes he could just stay and enjoy a dinner with friends and keep fostering his stupid little crush in peace, but failing to go home risks a downright nuclear response from his parents. Ethan steeples his fingers and swivels his chair back and forth. "Mm. I see" He gets right to the point—the element of surprise did fuck-all for Maelgwyn. "Are you paying me? I did say I charge extra for the good boyfriend act."

“My parents will pay for plane tickets and feed us. Plus a hundred bucks.” It’s all Maelgwyn has until his next paycheque. He’s sticking it out, knowing that the price of telling his parents he’s out of money is far too dear to pay. He hopes to god Ethan doesn’t press for more.

Ethan makes a face like this is a less than generous offer. He spins around in his chair and looks at the ceiling, considering it. “I thought you said you'd do it for free last time," Maelgwyn presses.

Ethan pouts at him. "I said I'd do it for donuts. And you only bought me two ."

Maelgwyn had taken a sizable bite out of one, too. At the time, Ethan had only laughed and helped wipe powdered sugar off his chin. Maelgwyn knows he's being facetious now. "I'll buy you the dozen I promised," he says, and then softens his voice. "Please?"

Ethan stops spinning and lolls his head over to look at him. “I’ll do it for you,” he says, “but don’t let word get around that you fucked me over. Right?”

Maelgwyn could kiss him. He tries not to think about that too hard. “Thank you.”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you. Are you staying? Edmund has Composition 401. I’m lonely.” He droops into his chair dramatically.

“Tough shit. I have work.”

“Ugh. You really dropped by just to ask something from me? Typical politician’s son.” Ethan busies himself—or possibly just pretends to busy himself—with his computer again, untangling his earbuds to plug them back into his ears.

“Hey,” says Maelgwyn, walking backwards through the apartment and then thinking better of it when he nearly trips over a beanbag chair. “Watch it. You’re going to be dating a politician’s son in a couple weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re not paying me to pretend to enjoy it.” Ethan leans around his computer to give him a shitty grin. Maelgwyn flips him off, one hand on the doorknob. When his head has disappeared back behind his computer, Maelgwyn reluctantly lets himself back out.

He didn’t realize how much he’d acclimatized to the basement in the few short minutes he’d been inside, but the air feels cold and damp in comparison, albeit free from secondhand smoke. Maelgwyn sighs, hiking the steep stairs back up and feeling his knees twinge. He’s not looking forward to his closing shift.

As he begins to pick his way across campus towards the Starbucks where he toils and suffers for a bit of extra allowance, his thoughts stubbornly drift towards Ethan no matter how many times he tries to slap them away. This crush of his, it’s—it’s silly, not to mention a betrayal of a friend’s trust and a possible danger to the group dynamic. And more than a danger to the group—god, imagine having to explain this to his parents . They may have accepted Maelgwyn dating him, but being in a relationship with him, a serious one, would be unthinkable. He thinks that, and then hates himself for thinking of it so strategically, the way a politician would. Is it even realistic to think that it could be a danger? That would be presuming that Ethan would ever reciprocate it. At the end of the day, it’s better for everyone that Ethan doesn’t see Maelgwyn in that way—never will.

Maelgwyn is surprised at how much he hurts himself with that firm conclusion. He jams his hands in his pockets, buries his head in his jacket, and speeds up his pace.

---

"A gated community?" Ethan whistles, twiddling his vape thoughtfully. "It's a wonder that your parents let you out of their sights long enough to go for a piss, mon cher . I mean, someone might kidnap you off the toilet bowl."

"Stop it. I didn't grow up here," Mael says, but he winces. The luxuries of his upbringing had faded into the background of the stress of being shuffled from place to place, from parents' to cousins' to grandfathers', and then back with one parent and not the other—but anytime his friends bring up their derision for his parents' oft-flaunted wealth, he feels like those problems are frivolous and luxurious.

Lugging their carry-on suitcases behind them, he and Ethan walk through a row of perfectly even cookie-cutter mini-mansions with manicured but plain lawns, their siding ranging from white to beige to an adventurous taupe in a lame attempt at breaking up the visual monotony. Maelgwyn would hardly be able to recognize Samot's house if it weren't for Samothes's obnoxiously shiny black BMW parked in the driveway.

Maelgwyn can hardly muster the feeling of coming home at all, despite Samot's insistence that there's a bedroom ready for him whenever he wants it. This house had been carelessly bought during Samot's brief separation with Samothes, and though it now serves as a neutral base of operations for Samot's mayorly aspirations, Maelgwyn has never gotten over the feeling of this as a transitory space, like a disturbingly neat vacation home that he doesn't feel comfortable using the full facilities of. Lost in thought, he gets halfway up the driveway before realizing that Ethan isn't trailing after him. He turns to see him still at the curb, gagging on his own smoke. “You okay?” Maelgwyn asks as he doubles over, coughing out clouds. Ethan slowly straightens up, pointing a hateful, trembling finger over Maelgwyn's head. Maelgwyn twists to see a Leafs flag halfheartedly hung over Samot’s garage door.

"You—you're—you can't make me go in there." Ethan spits at him, as if Maelgwyn personally put it up to spite him. “You’re insulting my French-Canadian heritage.”

“Ethan, you’re more brown than me," Maelgwyn says, half-laughing.

"I can't believe I didn't ask for more money," Ethan says petulantly, changing tack to stubbornly look away from the flag, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sight. "One hundred isn't nearly enough for me to pretend to be dating the son of a Leafs fan."

"Oh, c'mon." Maelgwyn walks back down the driveway, conscious that eyes may be at his back, and takes Ethan's hand. Though he still scowls, Ethan's fingers fold between his willingly. “You can tear it down and piss on it or something,” Maelgwyn says lightly.

Ethan tucks his vape away and takes his suitcase again. “Thought you wanted me to run the good boyfriend routine this time.” He tugs at Maelgwyn’s hand, leading him up the driveway before he can see his expression. Maelgwyn hurries after him, swallowing.

“Um, well—we didn’t really agree on that, did we?” He follows Ethan up the stairs, their carryons clacking awkwardly up the steps. By the time Maelgwyn stumbles up to the landing, Ethan has assumed a blank, placid standard Hitchcock expression that Maelgwyn can’t even imagine trying to read. Maelgwyn takes his hand away and starts fumbling with his keys. “Maybe we should just… play it by ear.”

He rifles through his bulk of spare keys to his dozen homes that aren’t really homes and finally finds the right one. He fits it into the lock and takes a breath, dread settling heavily into the bottom of his lungs. “Fair enough,” Ethan finally says. He steps up beside Maelgwyn, bumping him with his hip gently. Maelgwyn’s shoulders release a fraction of their tension, but it all returns when he turns the key. It prickles up his spine and tightens his shoulders, like the hair raising on the back of a cat.

He steps into the foyer. Nothing immediately terrible happens. He’s not sure if the living room has gotten even more clinically white and beige since the last time he was here, or if he’d just forgotten how much it looked like a car dealership’s waiting room. The Tristé siblings are sprawled irreverently over the long, uncomfortably rectangular sectional couch. Maelgwyn takes another step, emboldened by the sight of possible allies—and knocks his head on a comically large sprig of mistletoe hung on the entryway of the living room.

Angelo’s head whips up. “ Hey ! No entry without paying the cringe tax.” He points up to the mistletoe gleefully. Adelaide raises her eyes from her phone, twinkling with mischief. Maelgwyn hears Ethan’s footsteps stop beside him. His blood rushes so loudly in his ears that he stops being able to process sound.

It all happens very fast. The Tristés yell and jeer, and Ethan turns to Maelgwyn with a perfect easy smile on his face. "Want to?" he asks.

"Sure," says Maelgwyn, amazed that he manages to get it out without choking, and Ethan steps forward and kisses him as if they'd practiced it. It's just a little kiss, but it’s good. Not as awkward as he expected. Maelgwyn hasn't been kissed in a long time—not since he and Castille decided that something about their fumbling affections was decidedly not right and called it off, at this point over a year ago. Maelgwyn had spent a lot of time since then huddling under his weighted blanket and trying to convince himself that he didn’t wish it was a real, warm human weight. It disappoints him how quickly that lie evaporates when Ethan’s face presses against his, warm and soft. Wanting to be touched—it feels like yet another luxury problem that Maelgwyn can barely afford, but goddamn it, it’s a problem nonetheless.

Ethan steps away just as fast as he’d leaned in and smiles at him, arm still looped around his waist. Maelgwyn steadies himself against his suitcase and hopes desperately that the Tristés don't ask why he looks so dazed.

Angelo and Adelaide heckle them for a few moments more, and then settle down. Adelaide’s jeers sound particularly loud and sharp, and Maelgwyn winces internally. She’ll be hard to win over if they go the good boyfriend route after all. “You’re so funny,” he says. “Did dad put these up?”

“Oh, you know it,” Angelo says. He holds two fingers up to his mouth and makes a loud retching noise. Adelaide shakes her head, back to her phone.

“ Baobei ?” Samot calls from the kitchen. “Is that you?” Maelgwyn didn’t think his stomach could have gotten any heavier, but it’s as if lead is pinning him to the ground.

“Just a second, dad,” he calls back, grip tightening on the handle of his suitcase to ground himself.

“Come say hi to your father!”

His father—so that means Samothes is here. Maelgwyn toes off his shoes, grimacing to the side so that his cousins won’t see it. “One second! ”

“Oh,” says Ethan behind him. “Before we go.” Glad for any sort of delay, Maelgwyn turns to see him taking something from his pocket and takes a moment to identify it as Tristero’s stolen watch. Any relief gone, he fights the urge to tackle Ethan to the ground as if he’s about to be targeted by snipers, and instead watches helplessly as Ethan dangles it between two fingers and offers it to Adelaide. "Merry Christmas."

Angelo whistles. Maelgwyn clenches his teeth, but surprisingly, Ethan’s fingers aren’t immediately bitten off. Adelaide slowly reaches out to take the other end of the watch, regarding him with narrow-eyed curiosity. She slips the watch into the purse at her feet and folds her hands in her lap. "Nicely done,” she says, cautiously diplomatic. “My father doesn’t fly in until this afternoon. I figure this means you'll be sticking around?"

"As long as you'll have me," Ethan says, grinning easily and putting his hands back in his pockets.

"Well, at least you know how to pick your battles, because let me tell you—you might think you've won with his parents, but you're only getting started."

“ Baobei! ”

Maelgwyn gives her a harried smile—which she doesn’t return—and grabs Ethan’s sleeve to drag him to the kitchen before Samot has a conniption.

He’s just in time to catch Samothes ducking in from the dining room to kiss his husband under another overstuffed bunch of mistletoe. Maelgwyn yelps in dismay, shielding his eyes too late. “ Dad! ” He’s not sure how much of his disgust is real and how much of it is a spiteful use of familial teasing to express the frustration that being around Samot usually makes impossible to vocalize.

Samot steps back, laughing brightly. “What? It far from the first time you’ve seen that, Maelgwyn.”

“And it was just as embarrassing the other billion times.”

Samothes raises a hand to Ethan and Maelgwyn and silently retreats to the dining room, his glasses on and his laptop under his arm. Maelgwyn figures that Samot lost tonight’s argument about work during family time. At the very least, that’s one variable mostly out of play for the evening. Samot smiles and moves through the pointlessly large kitchen to come fold him into a hug, which Maelgwyn is too jet-lagged to resist. His hair is in a carefully messy bun that Maelgwyn is sure took twenty minutes to artfully arrange, and he’s wearing a gauzy tank top that probably cost more than Maelgwyn’s term tuition. “I’m so glad you could make it,” he effuse. As if not making it would cause anything less than a family-wide witch hunt.

“Merry Christmas, dad,” Maelgwyn mumbles.

“Merry Christmas, p’tit loup .” Samot sounds slightly absent. Maelgwyn remembers in a painfully self-conscious pang that Ethan is standing right behind him. Samot graciously releases him, his sights trained on a new prize. “Ethan. It’s so wonderful to see you.” He says wonderful how one might joke that a pile of puke smells like a rose.

This time, at least, Ethan is trying. He’s wearing a neat pink button-up and earrings that match, but he's left his awful mustache grow back in and waxed the ends. It's hard enough for Maelgwyn to read Samot, especially when he's in a grandstanding mood like this, but his once-over of Ethan seems markedly less negative than his first reception of him. “Hey,” Ethan says, giving him a breezy wave in place of a handshake—he seems to have learned his lesson last time. “Same to you, and all.”

They're still playing the backwards game of underhanded politeness that Maelgwyn's family is hopelessly embroiled in, but more cards are on the table this time. It’s sharply clear to Maelgwyn that this is Ethan's second chance to introduce himself as an upstanding member of the family—and, watching Samot smile at Ethan with a touch of satisfaction, as if he’d personally put Ethan back in his place—he finds that he quietly, selfishly doesn’t want him to. He wants to be able to know that Ethan is truly on his side, not just presenting the face that others want to see. He wants to keep Ethan for himself.

His head spins slightly from the weight of that admission. Samot circles the island in the middle of the kitchen, piled high with takeout boxes. Maelgwyn sees pork belly, jaozi, and spring rolls. Despite himself, his stomach rumbles. They’d interrupted Samot in the midst of plating each box to look like he’d cooked it himself, artfully smearing sauces and sprinkling herbs, adding beds of vegetables and small porcelain sauce containers. Maelgwyn could probably count the number of times Samot has actually used this kitchen on half of one hand. “Wine?” Samot asks, proferring a bottle of white that he’d already begun to enjoy.

“I’m okay,” says Maelgwyn, at the same time that Ethan says, “Sure.” Maelgwyn winces, knowing that a glass of wine will stretch this encounter out from a few spare minutes to a lengthy, prying ordeal.

“ Wonderful, ” Samot says again, showing his artificially white teeth. Maelgwyn slinks into one of the stools at the counter, trying to make himself small and less of a target. Luckily, Samot’s eyes are glued to Ethan as he fetches them a pair of stemless glasses and pours them each a generous dose. Maelgwyn feels instantly awful for having considered himself lucky—he’s throwing Ethan to the wolves here.

“Thanks,” Ethan says, accepting his glass. He slides into the stool next to Maelgwyn, his knee pressing into his. He and Samot each take their first sip, and Samot looks expectantly at him over the rim of his glass. Maelgwyn knows that he’s poised to critique whatever pedestrian opinion Ethan has of his choice—a frequently used and frankly irritating power move—but instead Ethan drains half of his glass, smacks his lips, and doesn’t deign to comment. He puts the glass down and idly traces the rim. He’s looking back at Samot with a directness that makes Maelgwyn feel like he isn’t even part of the conversation. “So,” he says, casual but with an undertone that Maelgwyn doesn’t like. “A Leafs household, huh?”

Maelgwyn should have expected this—but he didn’t think such a small and obvious dig would ruffle someone like Ethan Hitchcock. He glances at him and finds a strange tension in his shoulders, one that he’s never seen in him before. He doesn’t see Samot’s face, but he can hear the smugness in his voice when he says, “Of course. Who wouldn’t be, after their last season? I think that this year, they could even go all the way.”

Maelgwyn knows for a fact that Samot wasn’t even remotely interested in their last season, or any season prior. Again, he thinks that Ethan should be able to see through this, but instead he scoffs loudly, bristling and on the offensive. “Last year was a fluke. With the restructure they just had–-and anyway, they’re cursed. They’re not going any further than the first round.”

“Oh? And the Canadiens are?”

Maelgwyn should never have let him wear that jersey. He should’ve warned him that Samot would do this—nitpick at a little detail of his life until he found a substantial thread that he could pull at. He stares down at the counter, watching Ethan’s knuckles go white as he clenches the edge of his seat. “They’re going in with a good group this year,” he says through his teeth. “Caulfield, Gallagher, Suzuki, Price—”

“I think Price is a little overrated,” Samot says, cocking his head at him in the way he does when he knows he’s got someone outmaneuvered. “Don’t you?”

Ethan is silent in shock, and then he splutters, and then he bursts out, “How can you say that? Price is a pillar of the franchise! He’s—he—they’d be nowhere without him!”

Maelgwyn hears Samot sip his wine and gently set it back down, not worked up in the slightest. "I just think he gets more credit than he deserves." A satisfied air emanates from him, even if Maelgwyn can’t bear to look at him. Ethan stammers in rage beside him. Maelgwyn reaches out and grabs his hand, squeezing to a degree that’s more painful than comforting.

“Ethan,” he says, quiet and sharp. “It doesn’t matter.” He knows this an admission of weakness, a display to Samot that he can’t bear to watch Ethan lose this battle—but he doesn’t care. He wants this to stop before it can snowball out of control, before the family gets word that his boyfriend shouted during Christmas , at his father no less. Ethan cuts off whatever he was about to say, letting out a furious breath. He drains another third of his wineglass, setting it down carelessly.

“We were just having a conversation,” Samot says lightly. Maelgwyn feels fury curl in his chest, but he holds it there until it cools. The kitchen is uncomfortably silent. He can hear the patter of Samothes typing in the other room. Maelgwyn feels the quiet in the marrow of his bones and in his molars, unsettling him to his core. "So, Maelgwyn," Samot says abruptly, "are you staying the week?"

Maelgwyn can't even reply before nausea overwhelms him. He can’t bear seven more days of this. He opens his mouth, not even knowing what he’s about to say—but Ethan squeezing his hand brings him to a confused halt. With a piteous touch to his voice, Ethan says, "Actually, I was hoping he could come to meet my mother with me."

Maelgwyn tries not to let his gaze shoot up to him too obviously. He’s finally brave enough to look at his father instead: blinking and open-mouthed, wineglass frozen below his lips. The silence, this time, feels oddly in Maelgwyn’s favor. "I thought you weren't in touch with your mother,” Samot finally says, his triumph fading to the back of his voice.

"Yeah, well… We’d been looking, you know? And it turned out she’d been looking, too.” Ethan lets go of Maelgwyn’s hand and fishes his phone out of his pocket, flipping through his image gallery. He pulls up a picture of him and Edmund with their arms around a tall woman, all of them laughing, pointing at each other in disbelief. She does look strikingly like them—self-assured, curly-haired, merry-eyed. Maelgwyn bends in to get a closer look, but Ethan is turning the phone to show it to Samot. “This is the first time we ever met—just about a month ago. She’s waiting to celebrate Christmas once I get back home,” Ethan says, the pitiful note in his voice becoming an overtone. “I thought it would be a good time to introduce her to Maelgwyn. If you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

All of this is new to Maelgwyn—and it’s bullshit, all of it. He feels it. As Samot stares at the image, his wineglass still hovering in the air, Maelgwyn knows that he feels it too. There’s a small furrow in his brow, a dent in his armor. Slowly, he smiles, far too stretched and thin to be real. His eyes are bright, but not with anything that Maelgwyn could describe positively. "Is that so," he says, nearly through clenched teeth. “Well. Isn’t that wonderful. Of course Maelgwyn can go.” He turns his wide-eyed look on Maelgwyn, almost accusatory—but Maelgwyn finds himself unable to be hurt by it. Of course it’s bullshit. Of course, and they all know it, but Samot can’t say it, not after he’d cooked up that crock of shit to get on Ethan’s nerves. Maelgwyn almost wants to laugh, but he settles for squeezing Ethan’s knee to work out his euphoria.

“Thanks, dad,” he says in a rush. “It means a lot.”

“Of course,” Samot says stiffly. He takes a breath to steady himself and downs the rest of his wine in one gulp. Ethan finishes his own glass in small, serene sips. There are a few beats of silence again, and Maelgwyn hastily readies fake answers to any questions Samot might have—but in the end Samot just sighs and goes back to his plating, plucking dumplings from a box to arrange them inside of a bamboo steamer. “Well. Your room is ready if you’d like to settle in, Maelgwyn . ”

“Thanks, dad.” Maelgwyn slides out of his seat, trying not to be visibly relieved at the merciful dismissal. Ethan slips his hand into his again as he follows him to the door. Maelgwyn’s chest thrills—at the contact, at the success of their on-the-fly plan, at the assuredness of having someone on his side.

“Oh,” Samot says. “I nearly forgot. Ethan will sleep on the couch."

Ethan nearly tumbles into Maelgwyn as they halt at the doorway. He blinks at Samot disbelievingly. For a moment Maelgwyn thinks he's going to burst out, but instead he politely says, "There's not enough rooms?"

Samot glances up at them over his array of dishes. For the first time in the night, his gaze is openly cold. “Well, the Tristés are taking the guest room, and—pardon me—I don’t feel quite comfortable having you lodge with my son yet.”

“ Dad ,” Maelgwyn says, mortified, that ribbon of anger beginning to wind its way back into his chest. He hates being called my son , like a toddler who has to be protected from his own decisions. “Seriously?”

The look Samot gives him is less frigid, but only just. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, sweetheart, but don’t you think it’s improper?”

You do mean to embarrass me, Maelgwyn thinks, but he clenches his teeth shut against the accusation. “Fine. Whatever,” he manages, which is the best he can do—but still not enough. Samot tilts his head at him, mouth wrinkling disapprovingly. Maelgwyn knows he’ll hear about it later, but for now he needs out of this fucking kitchen, this conversation. He grips Ethan’s hand and pulls him back into the living room.

He marches them past the Tristés, who barely have time to lift their heads from their phones before they pass. He hears Angelo say something to Adelaide, voice lilting jovially, and his anger grows into his head, warming him to the tips of his ears. Ethan stumbles behind him, pausing in the door to the foyer as Maelgwyn lets him go to fumble with his suitcase. After a moment, he follows suit, pressing down the handle to his carry-on and hoisting it up, following Maelgwyn as he stomps up the staircase to the side of the door.

“Mael,” he hisses as he follows him up. Maelgwyn doesn’t answer, too afraid of the Tristés hearing him snap something he’ll regret. That’s what his anger feels like when its blistering heat dissipates—fear. He waits until they’re safely up in the corridor to the bedrooms before he collapses, throwing his suitcase down on the carpet and leaning heavily against a wall. “Maelgwyn,” Ethan says again, stepping up beside him, a hand hovering over his shoulder. “ Esti de calice. Are you okay?” Maelgwyn usually hates being seen like this, but for once something pushes him closer to another person rather than away. Stumbling upright, he mushes his face into Ethan’s shoulder and lets him put his arms around him.

“I fucking hate it here,” he mumbles into his shirt. "I want to go home."

"I don't blame you, cherie ." Ethan strokes his hair, smoothing his hand down to the small of his back and pulling him close so their hips bump. They stay there for a moment, Maelgwyn gripping Ethan’s sleeve and breathing in his shitty cologne, slowly working the agonizing mix of feelings in his chest into something more manageable and compartmentalized. It’s the best he can do while he’s still here. Ethan leans in to murmur into his curls, "I was going to keep it a surprise, but I talked Aubrey into saving dinner for the night we get back.”

Mael is startled into raising his head. “You didn’t.”

Ethan could deflect, but instead he gives him that a gentle, half-nervous real smile of his. “If this goes anything like it did last time… I thought you might need it after we got back.”

I love you , Maelgwyn thinks, startling himself with it. He doesn’t know if it’s true, but it had come to mind so fast . "I could kiss you," he says instead, because the thought is beginning to recur and become hard to ignore. Ethan gives him a crooked little smile, much more like his usual expression, and glances upward pointedly. Maelgwyn looks up to see another bunch of mistletoe, pinned above the top of the stairs. He’s sure Ethan is trying to be obnoxious, but all it does is set his heart thumping and render him incapable of a comeback other than a nervous laugh. "Alright," he says, and puts his arms around Ethan's neck in anticipation.

Ethan kisses him, and fuck him, it isn't chaste this time. While Maelgwyn recovers from the urge to make a truly embarrassing noise, he steps away like nothing happened, like he didn't just slip him some tongue in his father’s house. Maelgwyn catches his breath and leans against him to murmur in his ear, "Fuck you." Ethan just smiles serenely in response, his cheek rounding against Maelgwyn’s. Maelgwyn sighs and butts their heads together. He brushes his lips against his ear and murmurs, "Good kisser."

"You would know."

They both ignore the fact that there's no one around to see this, and there was no point in doing it at all.

“Really, though,” Ethan murmurs. “You okay?”

Maelgwyn finally steps back, feeling cold where he was once pressed against Ethan. He shrugs, managing to put a casual face back on for the sake of his sanity. “I am now. C’mon.”

It begins to occur to him as they walk to his room that Samot might raise hell if anyone spotted Ethan here with him, but he’s too tired to care. Samot will be busy fussing over ‘his’ dinner until the guests arrive, and Maelgwyn is looking forward to getting a goddamn break until then. He finds his door and leads Ethan in, and for the first time he looks at ‘his’ room through someone else’s eyes. It’s as clinical as the rest of the house, indistinguishable from a guest room, the dressers bare and the furniture unbearably chic. His sheets are crisply folded, tucked in like a hotel bed. Ethan pauses at the door, taking the emptiness in. “It’s so moving to be in your childhood room, Mael.”

Maelgwyn snorts, shoving him with his forearm. "Shut up ."

“So many memories made here. I can feel it."

“You’re such a dick.” Maelgwyn doesn’t want to unpack and settle into this room—not ever, but especially when he’ll be racing to make a speedy exit as soon as possible. He flops his suitcase over at the foot of his bed and unzips it, tosses a few necessities onto the chest of drawers, and runs out of things he’s willing to do. He flops down flat on the bed, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath in. The smell of rosy laundry detergent itches at his nose. Ethan eases down beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. Maelgwyn opens his eyes to see him looking at him, and his stomach does something funny. He can see the beginning of stubble growing back in on Ethan’s jaw. “Hey,” he says. “Hey yourself.”

Maelgwyn hums thoughtfully, trying to distract himself. “So. Was that really your mom?”

Ethan snorts. “Yeah. She's never celebrated Christmas in her life, but she'd be game to take pictures if you need. She gave me permission to pull the family reunion card.”

Despite their earlier successful con, Maelgwyn's stomach flips again at the implication of actually meeting Ethan's mother. "Oh," he says lightly, "so your whole family's like this?"

"It's congenital."

Mael laughs softly. “When did you get into contact with her?"

Ethan scrunches up his face thoughtfully "Five years ago?” Maelgwyn snorts, shaking his head. He should’ve expected nothing less from Hitchcock. He rolls into Ethan, resting his head on his shoulder again. It’s becoming a familiar comfort. They lay there in companionable silence, the sounds of people moving and talking downstairs muffled by layers of flooring. Maelgwyn knows this solace will be fleeting, but until then, he luxuriates in this little bubble of comfort they’ve created.

The two of them, comfortable together. It’s quite a concept.

Maelgwyn realizes that in all of his strategizing and stressing about what his parents and friends would think, he had never quite stopped to wonder how he felt about the prospect of Ethan reciprocating his stupid little crush. Outwardly, Ethan is a slightly sinister mess—but the more time Maelgwyn spends with him, the more he’s starting to get to see beneath that, to a boy who cares deeply for his tightly knit circle despite his general disregard for the world at large. He makes Maelgwyn feel like he has someone on his side and at his back, like he’s someone worth spending time with and listening to. He’s spent so much of his life carefully considering someone else’s opinions, after all, weaving Edmund’s needs into his own so tightly that they couldn’t be extricated from his own. Maelgwyn might never describe him as kind, but he is, in his own way, loving.

If Maelgwyn stops to ask himself how he would feel about truly presenting Ethan as his boyfriend, the answer comes to the surface with surprising speed.

Maelgwyn raises his head and reaches up to touch his cheek. Ethan blinks at him and gives him that soft, real smile again, and Maelgwyn can't help it anymore. He leans in to kiss him.

He makes out with him like he's starving, hands running up his sides, mouth insistent and roaming. Ethan makes a noise of surprise and breathes in, and then all together he melts into Maelgwyn and pulls him in by the waist. This is new ground for Maelgwyn—he’s hardly ever been the one to initiate these things, and has spent so much time going without them entirely—but treading it together doesn’t feel as terrifying as it should. He sinks into soft contentment, his perception of the world around him dulled, all of his attention narrowed onto Ethan.

There's a burst of shocked laughter at the side of the room, and they jump apart, Maelgwyn's heart bursting with terror. Angelo is leaning in the doorway, smiling obnoxiously but politely looking at the floor. "Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds."

Maelgwyn puts a hand over his mouth as if he can hide the evidence of what he was just doing. Ethan struggles to his elbows and tries to fix his curls, clearing his throat. He’s breathing as if he was just running. “Just wanted to tell you Tristero’s here,” Angelo says, already beginning to retreat. “Dinner’s in ten.”

“Oh,” Maelgwyn says, voice mortifyingly rough. “Okay.”

They wait in stunned silence as Angelo retreats to the hallway and down the stairs. When they hear him muffling a laugh on the way down, they can’t help it. They burst into giggles themselves, Maelgwyn reaching out to squeeze Ethan’s arm. “We’re never fucking living that down,” he manages to say between wheezes.

Ethan wordlessly presses his forehead to his shoulder, riding out the last of his giggles. When he raises his head, Maelgwyn unconsciously leans in a fraction, wanting to be kissed again. Ethan puts a hand on Maelgwyn's shoulder to interrupt, but the corner of his lips turn up reassuringly. "Later." He reaches out to tuck Maelgwyn’s hair back into place, tracing his fingertips down his cheek. “Okay.”

Maelgwyn nods, squeezing his wrist. A tiny flicker of hope lands in his chest, and he shields it like the first spark of a flame. “Okay.”

---

Later never comes. Maelgwyn is mad with longing all through the evening, but Samol insists they play board games and the Tristés bicker over a dozen different movies to watch, and bit by bit the time trickles away fruitlessly. By the time midnight rolls around, Ethan seems more interested in dozing on his shoulder than being kissed. Maelgwyn rests his head against his and feels so frustrated that he could cry.

It’s always been difficult for him to admit to wanting something of his own, and even more difficult to believe that he could have it. By the time that they separate at night so that Maelgwyn can go sleep in ‘his’ bedroom, he’s thoroughly convinced himself that he whole thing had been a fluke, an imagined romance he’d created to distract and soothe himself. He falls asleep exhausted, and he wakes up miserable.

All that Ethan does in the morning is cram down youtiao and bitch about his back hurting, and after breakfast their day is a rush to pack and hustle to the airport. Ethan is quiet and thoughtful as they move through the airport, unusually reticent to strike up conversation with the staff. As they loiter at their their gate, Ethan leaning up against a wall and trying not to fall asleep, Maelgwyn excuses himself and finds an ATM. When he returns, he holds out two fifty-dollar bills, feeling strangely defeated about it.

Ethan perks right up. “Thank you very much,” he says, snapping them up and jamming his hands in the pockets of his stoner hoodie. Maelgwyn grunts affirmatively and comes to stand beside him, folding his arms behind his back and scanning the crowd idly. Ethan bumps his shoulder with his, and he startles, having almost catastrophized himself into thinking that Ethan didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. “Hey,” Ethan says.

“Hey yourself.” Maelgwyn gives him a cautious look.

“So. Dinner for two, plus a few drinks. Maybe a box of donuts for good measure. Tends to come out to a hundred-dollar bill in this economy, no?”

Maelgwyn blinks at him, not quite following. “Yeah. Sure does.”

“ Maudit baptême, Mael. ” Ethan huffs out a laugh, snapping his gum. “I meant you and me. Dinner. Sounds good?”

Maelgwyn just keeps blinking at him, knowing he’s taking too long to answer but puzzling through what that could possibly mean. He’d really thought that at some point the politician’s blood in him would take hold and make these snap judgements easier. Ethan smiles at him patiently. “What? I can’t ask my fake boyfriend on a real date? Not after I’ve played tonsil hockey with him? Three times?”

The promise that Ethan had made to him—the one he’d buried under layers of self-sabotage—comes bubbling back up to the surface, shining bright. “Well,” Maelgwyn says, finding it in him to smile again, “when you put it like that, I guess it wouldn’t be fair to turn you down.”

He doesn’t quite know how to handle this wordless, rollicking transition between facade and truth, but if there’s anyone who seems happy to play in gray areas, it’s Ethan Hitchcock—and Maelgwyn doesn’t so much mind the idea of following him. When he drops his hand to find Ethan’s, he finds that it had already been there waiting for him.

#maelgwyn #friends at the table #ethan hitchcock #maelethan

0 notes