Gabriel set his mug down on the low table, steam curling faintly into the dim light.
He lowered himself onto the couch, shoulders straight, every movement precise as if even sitting required discipline.
He'd barely settled when the cushions dipped.
Ethan flopped beside him, a crinkling bag of snacks in one hand, a bottle in the other.
"Cozy," Ethan murmured, nudging his knee against Gabriel's like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Gabriel shifted just enough to reclaim a sliver of distance, lifting the mug to his lips. "Don't spill."
"I won't." Ethan tore into another packet, crunching noisily before tilting the bag toward him. "Want some?"
Gabriel didn't even glance at it. "No."
Ethan shrugged, popping another piece into his mouth.
He stretched his legs across the rug, eyes sliding sideways to watch Gabriel sip his tea.
The contrast amused him—one savoring bitter warmth, the other drowning in sugar.
After a moment, Ethan let out a low chuckle. "Look at us. Like an old married couple—me ruining my teeth, you sipping tea like a monk."
Gabriel shot him a flat look over the rim of his cup. "You talk too much."
Ethan grinned, unbothered, reaching for his drink. "And you don't talk enough. Balance, Angel. That's what makes us work."
Gabriel didn't answer.
But when Ethan's shoulder brushed his—whether by accident or design—he didn't move away.
Ethan rattled another handful of snacks into his palm, chewing with zero grace, crumbs clinging stubbornly to his lips.
He noticed Gabriel watching and narrowed his eyes playfully.
"What?" he asked around a mouthful.
Gabriel's gaze flicked sharp and lingering before he leaned in, thumb brushing the crumbs from Ethan's mouth. No words. No fuss. Just a simple gesture.
Ethan froze for half a beat, then his lips curved slow and triumphant. "Angel," he whispered, grin widening, "you're spoiling me."
Gabriel leaned back, expression smoothing into stone. "You're insufferable."
Ethan only grinned harder, shifting closer until his shoulder pressed against Gabriel's.
Then he tilted his head, resting it boldly against Gabriel's arm.
"Don't," Gabriel said quietly.
Ethan tilted further, hair brushing Gabriel's sleeve, eyes dancing with mischief. "Too late."
"Ace—" Gabriel's voice sharpened.
But Ethan only wriggled stubbornly, settling himself more firmly like a cat claiming a sunspot. "Hush. I'm comfortable."
Gabriel exhaled through his nose, a faint sound of surrender.
His jaw worked, but he didn't push him away.
The silence stretched, broken only by Ethan's soft hum and the distant tick of the clock.
Ethan's smile gentled. "See? Not so bad."
Gabriel didn't reply, but his hand, resting on his thigh, curled slightly—betraying tension his face refused to show.
After a while, Ethan murmured, "You always this serious, Angel? Or is it just me you glare at like I'm a stray dog scratching at your door?"
Gabriel's gaze stayed fixed ahead. "You scratch louder than most."
Ethan huffed a laugh. "Fair. But really—do you ever relax?"
The silence stretched. Gabriel's jaw worked once. "Relaxation's a luxury."
Ethan tilted his head to study him. "That sounds rehearsed. Like something you've told yourself a hundred times."
Gabriel finally looked at him, eyes sharp but tired underneath. "Because it's true."
Ethan's grin faded. "Guess that's the difference between us. I never take anything seriously enough. You… never let yourself breathe."
Gabriel didn't argue, didn't look away.
Ethan straightened slightly but kept close, voice softening. "You live here alone? No family? No friends stopping by?"
Gabriel's expression flickered, but his tone stayed steady. "It's quieter this way."
Ethan's smile was faint, almost sad. "Quieter… or lonelier?"
That landed. Gabriel's fingers curled against his knee, eyes narrowing just enough to warn Ethan off—but Ethan didn't flinch. He leaned back in, resting his head against Gabriel again, stubborn in his gentleness.
"Me," Ethan said quietly, "I had everything. Noise, chaos, people always telling me what to do, who to be. And still—I felt lonelier than I do right now, sitting here with you."
Gabriel's throat worked. He turned his face away, staring at some distant point on the wall, but he didn't move Ethan off his shoulder.
Ethan closed his eyes, smile soft again. "So maybe we're both messed up. Just… different flavors."
For a long while, Gabriel didn't answer. Then, barely above a whisper: "Maybe."
The room settled into comfortable quiet.
Ethan's cheek rested lightly against Gabriel's shoulder, his stubborn weight more warmth than burden—the kind of closeness Gabriel pretended to scold but never really pushed away.
"You're awfully quiet," Ethan said softly. "That's not like you."
Gabriel's eyes lingered on the darkened window. "Some things don't need words."
"Maybe." Ethan's hair brushed against Gabriel's jaw. "But sometimes words matter. Sometimes… it's the only way people really see you."
Gabriel huffed something between a laugh and a sigh. "You don't let things go, do you?"
"Not when it comes to you." Ethan's tone stayed light, but his eyes carried weight. "What about you, Gabe? Who sees you?"
The clock ticked louder. Gabriel swallowed, throat tight. "Not many. Maybe no one."
Ethan straightened enough to study his face. "That's a lonely answer."
Gabriel tried to shrug it off, but the words slipped out low, unguarded. "I grew up learning not to expect much. Parents weren't around… Most of the time, I just figured things out on my own." His jaw tightened as though the admission cost him.
Ethan's smile faded into something gentler. He brushed his fingers against Gabriel's hand where it rested. "That sounds tough."
Gabriel's eyes flicked to him, quick and defensive. "It's just life. You get used to it."
"Maybe." Ethan's thumb lingered at Gabriel's wrist, not demanding, just there. "But you don't have to get used to it alone anymore."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—it was fragile, the kind that could shatter with the wrong word.
Gabriel searched his face for a long moment, almost disbelieving.
Then he exhaled, leaning back so their shoulders brushed. "You really are stubborn."
Ethan grinned, breaking the tension without letting it go. "And you like it."
He didn't press, though his grin softened. He settled back against Gabriel's shoulder.
"You know," he murmured, "you don't have to tell me everything at once. But maybe a little piece? Something real."
Gabriel's lips tugged into a faint, ironic smile. "You don't give up, do you?"
"Not on snacks," Ethan teased, then more seriously, "and not on you."
Gabriel stared at the half-empty bowl between them. His thumb worried the edge of a paper wrapper, folding it, unfolding it, until the sound felt too loud.
"My mother died bringing me into the world," he said at last, voice steady in a way that suggested long practice. "My father lasted a little longer. Dropped me at my grandmother's place. Said it was temporary."
He gave a small, humorless exhale. "She raised me until I was ten. Then she was gone too."
The wrapper stilled in his hands. "After that… there wasn't anyone left. So the system took over. I ended up in an orphanage. Grew up there."
His voice thinned at the edges, like fabric stretched too far.
Ethan watched him carefully, usual brightness softened by something steadier. "So you've been carrying yourself for a long time."
Gabriel gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Carrying or dragging—depends on the day."
"Still," Ethan said quietly, "you made it. You're here. That says a lot."
Gabriel shifted, uncomfortable with praise, but didn't move away. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, stayed fixed on Ethan's hand resting over his own. "You make it sound easier than it was."
Ethan's voice dropped, steady and warm. "I don't think it was easy at all. But I think… maybe you don't always have to be strong around me."
For a moment, neither moved. The room held the stillness like a secret.
Gabriel let out a slow breath, the fight slipping from his shoulders. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
Ethan smiled against his shoulder, eyes glinting with quiet victory. "Not when I'm right."
This time, Gabriel didn't argue..