8. Chapter 8 #4
At least they hadn’t been kissing in Charlie’s kitchen. Or worse, Charlie could’ve come in half an hour ago and found them drowsy and satisfied on his couch.
“Uh, change of plans?” Ethan said. He looked right at Hank, like he was asking if it was okay if Charlie knew—but Charlie wore an A for the Bandits. He probably already knew. Because Max definitely would’ve known. Max was probably Inverness’ next call, the moment he’d hung up with Hank.
“Change of plans?” But Charlie looked confused, and Hank realized that Max hadn’t told him.
It made him like Max more, honestly. Even if he was weirdly close to Charlie, in a way that did not feel like they were just friends, there were clearly some lines he wasn’t willing to cross.
“Uh, yeah,” Hank spoke up. Charlie was going to know, sooner rather than later, and he might as well bite the bullet. Admit it. “I’m going to Syracuse in the morning.”
Charlie’s expression morphed into sympathy, and to Hank’s surprise it didn’t gall as much as he thought it might’ve, an hour ago.
“Shit,” Charlie said, setting the Chipotle bag on the counter. “That really sucks, Tuck. I thought Inverness would—well, he should’ve. That’s all I’ll say about it.”
It was more than he’d expected out of Barney, to be honest, but then Barney knew just how hot and cold Niko could be. He was hot now but would he be hot when it counted? He hadn’t been last year.
“Thanks,” Hank said. “So yeah, we ended up not going out.”
“Yeah,” Ethan agreed, like the plan had been more deliberate and not just, Hank had a meltdown and then we kissed and then we had sex. On your couch. Sorry. He went for the Chipotle bag, ripping it open and rifling through the contents. “Here’s yours, Hank. You get steak, right?”
“Adorable. You already memorized his Chipper order,” Charlie said with amusement.
Ethan shot his brother a look as he handed Hank his bowl.
Grabbed forks out of a drawer and, after picking up his own bowl, headed to the row of barstools, settling on one.
Hank followed, digging into his food. He was hungry, actually.
Maybe it was his regular metabolism or maybe it had been the sex. Or both.
“Like you haven’t had every single takeout order of Max’s memorized for years,” Ethan pointed out.
“Fair,” Charlie said. He looked a little flushed himself, under the high collar of his sweatshirt.
“Exactly,” Ethan said.
Hank didn’t add his two cents in, because he’d been learning, over the last year over so many conversations with Ethan, and even more during the last few weeks of camp and preseason, that when the brothers needled each other, it was always better—safer, even—to not get involved.
They could say things to each other that they’d never tolerate from anybody else.
“The concierge said that the regular delivery guy was sick and the replacement was unsure,” Charlie said. “So he called me. And I was like, I didn’t order Chipotle. Knew you were supposed to be going out. So I came to investigate.”
That actually sounded very Charlie-esque, but Ethan let it go. Didn’t give him shit.
“You could’ve texted me,” Ethan said.
“Well, I’m glad I came, so I could see Tuck, too,” Charlie said casually. “You’re gonna be back up before you know it. I’m sure of it.”
Hank swallowed a bite of his dinner. Watched as Ethan dipped a chip into the bowl in front of him. “Thanks.”
“Now that this is all figured out, I’m going back to Max’s,” Charlie said, a little pointedly, and Hank wasn’t going to flush about that. No way.
“Please go away,” Ethan said.
Charlie just rolled his eyes, but went to leave, patting Hank on the shoulder absently before he took off.
“Finally,” Ethan said, when the door closed behind him. He was scraping the bottom of his bowl. “You wanna watch something maybe?”
Hank was almost done with his food, too. Clearly he’d been hungrier than he’d realized. And clearly, Ethan was angling for maybe a little Netflix-and-chill, which Hank wasn’t against. Not at all.
He didn’t want to leave, but he also knew if he stayed any longer, he wouldn’t want to go at all. And he had to.
This was already hard enough as it was. Better, maybe, to not draw it out any further.
“Actually,” he said, clearing his throat. “I do have to pack and get my shit together so I can leave early tomorrow. Gotta be there by noon.”
Ethan looked disappointed; about as disappointed as Hank felt.
And it pushed him to add, “But God, I really don’t want to.”
Ethan tangled their feet together, one ankle locked around Hank’s. Like he’d keep him here, if he could. And Hank would stay, if he could. But he couldn’t.
“Alright,” Ethan said with a sigh. “I get it, though.”
Hank was going to get through this goodbye without 1) the lump making its grand re-entrance and 2) kissing Ethan the way he wanted to, which would probably mean them both stumbling back towards the “fucking sparse room” that was currently Ethan’s.
And he nearly made it too. Nodding as Ethan cleaned up. Telling Ethan he was going to kill it when the season opened. Teasing him a little when Ethan said the same thing back.
But then the moment came, Hank by the front door, slipping his shoes back on. “I . . .” He hesitated. Shoved his hands into his pockets. He didn’t want to say it. It was unfair to make him.
Of course Ethan said it instead. “I’m gonna miss you,” he said quietly and then before Hank could slide away—if he ever could have, which was doubtful, honestly—he was leaning in and kissing him again.
Long and lush and perfect. He tasted a bit like chicken and guacamole, which shouldn’t have been attractive, but under all that, he tasted like Ethan, like he had before, and that was more than hot, it was addictive.
It wasn’t even a kiss that promised more, at least not right now, but it did say goodbye. It said everything that they weren’t saying out loud.
When they finally broke apart, Ethan’s eyes were luminous in the dim light of the hallway. “Tear it up, okay?” he said.
And Hank knew exactly what else he wasn’t saying.
Tear it up, okay, and come back soon. Come back to me.
“Yep,” Hank said and then before his heart could change his feet’s mind, he was out the door, hearing its soft click behind him.