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Nor the hand that is healing

Summary:

The sweat that grows on the top of his forehead slowly rolls down his face, mixing with the grime and blood. He wonders when was the last time he showered. He tries to point to a time before all of this; he thinks of Mia and how he found her, and he no longer can remember if it was the evening or morning when he arrived in Louisiana.

It’s hot, he thinks.

He can barely process that someone is speaking to him. Chris Redfield is the name of the man that helps him get to his feet, and Ethan thinks how strong the man’s grip around his wrist is.

Notes:

hi! this is my very first work i have never posted anything before so i am sweating. english is also not my first language so if there are any silly mistakes or if something sounds weird my apologies yell at me in the comments if ive messed up somewhere big time

thank you a whole lot to tammy and davi for the beta i love you guys

title of the work comes from the song "not" by big thief

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: 1.

Chapter Text

It starts with blood covered clothes, furrowed brows and dirty fingernails. Ethan can feel the adrenaline leaving  him and his hands going soft. The sound of the helicopter barely registers in his head, and the air that hits his face smells like iron. 

 

The sweat that grows on the top of his forehead slowly rolls down his face, mixing with the grime and blood. He wonders when was the last time he showered. He tries to point to a time before all of this; he thinks of Mia and how he found her, and he no longer can remember if it was an evening or a morning when he arrived in Louisiana.  

 

It’s hot , he thinks. 

 

He can barely process that someone is speaking to him. Chris Redfield is the name of the man that helps him get to his feet, and Ethan thinks how strong the man’s grip around his wrist is. 

 

He holds Mia’s hand in the helicopter, thinking how she sliced off the very hand she’s now holding. He squeezes around her knuckles just to check if he can still really move them after leaving the Bakers’ house, as if the very ground the horrors happened on was keeping him together. 

 

Everything is a blur after that, and he can feel his legs going weak and his vision getting foggy. He shivers and the blood in his body feels like it's boiling. He thinks of the heat and the sound of the wings of the helicopter spinning and spinning. 




Waking up feels like a chore. Ethan swears that his bones are made out of sponge. Then he panics when he can no longer feel Mia’s fingers against his own, his eyes shooting around the helicopter. He jumps, feeling a hand on his shoulder, and when he turns frantically to look at the owner of it, sees Mia staring at him with tired, concerned eyes. 

 

He then thinks of her in that house. Dirty, sweaty, hungry, always in fear for her life. He thinks of how she laid on the dirty rag bed in the cellar and how he wasn’t there with her. How she had to fight for the air to breathe and the tears to cry. Licking at her wounds, she survived. 

 

And Ethan is still so very much in love with her. 

 

Always keeping the tenderness for her in his heart, never being able to leave her behind, he brings his forehead to rest it against her shoulder, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek, feeling the taste of iron on his tongue, just to stop himself from crying. 

 




The tests that come don’t seem to end. Ethan can only tell the time is moving right along when he’s able to see Mia. Moments of little serenity is all they get with each other. When they’re separated, their daily routine consists mostly of sleeping, eating and getting their bodily fluids collected. 

 

It turns out that The Mold is inside of them. It is a part of them that the BSAA doctors refer to as “undesirable” and so it needs to be removed. The process of the surgery is explained to both of them, but Ethan does not even have the energy to understand; neither does Mia. It seems like they don’t have a choice, regardless. 

 

Ethan thinks of the first time he had surgery. He must have been fourteen, he thinks, osteonecrosis of the knee, which as he remembers is technically nothing serious, but it still hurt like a bitch. Thinking about the anesthesia is not necessarily scary to him, more so the fact that the surgeons will be digging in his guts like there’s no tomorrow and god only knows in how many ways they can mess that up.

 

They get told that the surgery went well. Ethan does not feel well. His body feels like it went through a shredder. His bones heavy like cement, muscles ripping themselves with every move he makes. The scar that’s now healing down his chest a reminder of what happened in the Bakers’ house. He cries himself to sleep most of the time.

 

Each night leads to the same scenario. The bugs crawling out through his rib cage. The liquid that spills out of him now a dead, black color. He looks for Mia, and every time he finds her, she lies in a pool of her own blood. The same blood that covers his palms, and when he looks in the mirror, his teeth are red. His hands and his legs are getting cut off, over and over and over again. His hands and legs are getting reattached, over and over again. For breakfast, he eats cockroaches and caterpillars. He is now one of them. 

 

When he wakes up in a cold sweat, he is alone. 



They get to talk to Chris Redfield quite a bit. As Ethan learns, he is a man worn out by his work. A man that has two cups of black coffee before lunchtime. A man that wants what’s good for people. Winters are just another case of despair that Chris has to go through.

 

On long sleepless nights in his tiny , cold room, he wonders if there’s someone who cares for men like Chris. If there are people that love people like Chris. He wonders if it’s hard to love someone like Chris. Maybe people like Chris spend the night alone, in a tiny cold room, just like Ethan. Are there people who could love Ethan Winters?

 

Redfield explains their situation to them, tells them what to and not to expect. Reassures them that they will not get separated, unless they want to. They don’t.

 

“We will try to let you return to your lives as fast as we can,” Chris promises, sincerity in his voice. “We will have to move you, somewhere where we can keep an eye on your safety and your wellbeing. Somewhere in Europe, most likely.” 

 

Ethan raises his brows and quickly looks at Mia, who mirrors his expression, then quickly furrows her brows and looks back to Chris. 

 

“Where in Europe, exactly?” asks Mia. 

 

“Romania, probably,” says Chris 

 




Mia is eager to start anew. When they open the doors to their new home, it smells like dust covered wood and forest air. It’s much bigger than the place they owned in California. Instead of a small apartment with a city view, they now will be living in a house built on moss and dirt, surrounded by trees and animals. 

 

They work on their furniture by themselves, with a bit of help from Chris. He and Ethan task themselves on the assembly, and Mia paints ornaments and flowers on the tables and chairs and doors. She picks out the music they fill their home with, old records and CDs she found at a local store. The three of them dance to the soft tunes. At first, Chris says no, but when Mia grabs his hand and starts smiling up at him, the man can’t resist. 

 

Ethan thinks Redfield cannot dance at all, his body too big for gentle movements, but he knows that he’s not better either. They hold hands, all of them; Chris spins Mia and Ethan around, their feet tangling with each other. When they fall down and land on their asses and knees, the room fills with laughter. It’s slow and it’s loving.

 

“You want a beer?” Ethan asks Chris, who’s sitting on the couch, one that they brought into the living room today, a soft light brown color. He holds a bottle in his hand and gestures at it with his head. 

 

“I’m driving,” Chris smiles. 

 

“You can stay over if you want,” says Ethan, still standing next to the fridge. 

 

“I don’t think I should.”

 

“Why not? You’re always welcomed here. It’s not a problem.” In all his time that Chris knows Ethan, he realizes that the man is stubborn. Or maybe Chris is not able to refuse the things the other man offers. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. Chris can’t tell. 

 

“Alright,” he sighs. 

 

As Chris later finds out, Ethan gets drunk fast. It’s quick to a point where one beer in, Ethan laughs at everything, and to Chris’ horror gets clingy. He tells him it’s the medication he’s taking, it makes him get tipsy with a small amount of alcohol. When asked if he should mix them at all, Ethan shrugs. 

 

Chris tells him about his work. He talks about his sister too. Anything to not think about how close Winters sits next to him, how he puts a hand on Chris’ shoulder from time to time when he laughs and fills his heart with warmth and his gut with a sweet feeling. 

 

“You know Raccoon City, right?” He asks. Ethan nods as an answer. “Well, she was there, the night of the outbreak of the T-virus.”

 

“Seriously?” 

 

“Yeah. She went there in the first place because she had been looking for me. I think about it often, how she risked her life to find me. I think getting in zombie bullshit is in our blood.” 

 

“Or maybe you’re just good people?” Ethan asks and cracks a grin at the man besides him. 

 

“She is.” 

 

There’s a beat of silence, only the crickets outside playing their tunes and the hums of frogs can be heard. 

 

“Can I ask you something?” Ethan is the first one to speak.

 

“Alright.”

 

“Have you ever thought about… not doing this,” Ethan gestures wildly with his hand, “the whole bioweapon fighting thing? Doesn’t it feel like it’s too much sometimes?”

 

Chris is taken aback by this. There were moments in his life, in his so-called career, that made him want to leave it all behind, to screw it all, to go live in the middle of nowhere and not talk to anyone in hopes of never having to deal with this shit ever again in his life. Then he thinks of Clare, of Jill, of Leon even. He thinks of their work, of their struggle and of their pain, and how leaving them alone to it would be selfish. He thinks of Piers and how he would never forgive himself if he let his death not mean more than just the sacrifice he made for Chris. He thinks of people like Ethan and Mia and how it must be worth something, anything in the end. 

 

“I thought about it. But here I am.” He makes a face – a smile, but not quite. When Ethan does not respond at all, Chris turns to him and finds that he’s looking down at the almost empty bottle of beer in his hands. 

 

Chris then gazes at the scar around Ethan’s wrist, not yet healed, the skin pink and fresh, the marks of the staples still there. Maybe it all is worth something in the end. Maybe it will be worth something. 

 

The blonde rests his head on the other man’s shoulder and sloppily puts a hand on Chris’ arm, right around his wrist. Redfield holds his breath. There’s nothing weird about affection, and there is nothing weird about touch between men; what is weird is that the wife of the man laying himself down on him is sleeping upstairs. 

 

“Thank you, Chris. For everything that you’ve done for us.” Ethan's voice has a note of laughter in it, but it’s soft and gentle. He brushes his thumb over the spot his hand is resting on. 

 

It’s all too sudden when Ethan gets up, puts the empty bottles on the kitchen counter, and helps Chris unfold the couch, so it can actually fit him. When he returns with pillows and a spare blanket, the bigger man reaches out and holds onto Ethan’s hand. He feels foolish when they look at each other, and he feels foolish when he says, “Always happy to help.”

Chapter 2: 2.

Notes:

hiiiii i had to write half of this chapter on my flatmate's laptop because mine broke down so if it sucks im sorry
thank u tammy for the beta

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The mornings are rough when the nights are filled with screams and tears. Ethan dreams of Mia killing him, more so than her dying as time goes on. He dies with dirt in his mouth and his eyes filled with blood. He dies, and his limbs are missing. They are not growing back. He dies and there are bugs filling his coffin. He sometimes sees them above his grave, the Bakers. They don’t cry, nor do they ever leave. They don’t smile and they don’t speak. They bring food - the Mold. Eat. This will heal you. There is a girl standing between Jack and Marguerite, she’s holding their hands. Some nights she laughs down at him, some nights she weeps. The Mold grows above them, cradling their world in its hands. Some nights he wants to stay buried. 

 

As he later learns, Mia dreams a lot of Zoe, and how Ethan chose not to save her but his wife. His wife, who disappeared for three years and was the reason he had to go through this hell in the first place, the wife that brought this fate upon the family and her own husband. Ethan chose her over a woman that helped him stay alive in the house, that did everything in her power to help them all get out, the one that actually did something good. Ethan lies to Mia that it wasn’t her fault it came to this. He doesn’t say anything else. 



They undergo training. In theory, it’s simple enough. Mia learns how to handle a weapon properly, how to keep herself safe, how to aim better, how to keep her arms steady. It’s hard when all she thinks about is the Mold and the Bakers. Sooner or later, she gets a hang of it. 

 

Ethan learns how to handle himself, how to build up his strength, how to defend himself and how to move in the position of danger. Chris tells him he's pretty good at shooting ; one might think it’s a huge compliment coming from Chris Redfield himself, but Ethan knows that Chris has too much faith in everyone. He also says he should train his aim anyway.

 

When he gets to shooting, his left hand is always there, right in front of him when he’s pointing the gun at the paper targets. 

 

He’s in the house, the walls covered in dried blood and dirt, paint falling off, the smell of rotting flesh and dirty water in the air. It feels like his bones are crawling in on themselves, his chest hot and his legs weak. He swears that on his neck, he can feel the bugs that build Marguerite, crawling down his back, lower and lower and lower and—

 

And he’s on the floor, his legs shuddering full force, his arms clenching to his knees, he’s sobbing. A voice tells him to breathe. Breathe, Ethan. And so he does, in and out. When he looks up, Chris is right next to him, his expression stern. Ethan breathes, and slowly he reaches out for the other man, hand landing on Chris’ shoulder, fingers grabbing at the sleeve of his shirt. And he breathes, in and out. In and out. 

 

“You okay?” Chris asks once Ethan’s breathing evens out. Ethan shakes his head. 

 

“I don’t think I am Chris,” his voice breaking around Redfield’s name. “I don’t think I’ll ever be.” 

 

He gets up and Chris is on his feet immediately, letting Ethan use him as a support to actually stand. 

 

The movements are hesitant at first, an awkward hand on the shoulder there, and another around Ethan’s back, but in the end Chris is wrapping the man in a hug. A gentle one, one that Ethan can easily get out of if he wants to. When the smaller man returns the hug, Chris feels relief. Ethan rests his forehead on Chris’ chest, as the tears that fall find their landing in his shirt. 

 

“Does it get easier?” Ethan asks quietly, because he figures that if anyone is going to know the answer to the question, it has to be Chris.

 

“Sometimes. It’s gonna get better, Ethan, I promise.” 

 

After some time, Ethan’s able to shoot a gun without feeling like he’s dying.


 

Chris introduces Ethan to his team, The Hound Wolf Squad. They tell Ethan that he is always welcomed among them. They don’t tell him that it’s mostly because they like to play bets between themselves. Is their boss going to be making puppy eyes at Ethan? Maybe this time they'll be able to hear the smile in Chris’ voice? Perhaps he will laugh at Winters, in a way he only does when he laughs with him? Maybe he’ll gaze at Ethan’s back when he’s leaving? Or is it going to be a combination of all of these scenarios? 

 

They guess when he’s going to tell Ethan, and Chris pretends that he doesn’t know what they’re whispering between each other about during their lunch breaks.

 

Watching the two men interact is one of the highlights of their days. Ethan leaves the room and before Chris can turn around and say anything, Lobo is whistling. 

 

“Well, Captain, I can’t say I’m surprised.” A smirk on his face. Someone, probably Canine, snorts in the back. 

 

“Not a word,” Chris grumbles. 

 

“Sure thing, Boss.” 


 

Occasional check-ups turn into frequent visits, and visits turn into stays. It’s not the first time that Chris spends his time with the Winters, but now it’s different. They learn their routines, their likes and dislikes. They watch their favorite movies together. Ethan makes them all watch the Jurassic Park series. Slowly, yet so fast, like a seed making its way up to the Sun, pushing through the dirt, Chris becomes part of the house in the middle of the woods: house so warm and comfortable like a woolen sweater in winter, house that creaks with love and affection, house full of affection and familiar patterns. 

 

Mia talks about art, she breathes it and spends her energy on slowly planting the love for creating into others. It’s something that brings out her heart, something that helps her heal. She speaks of Henry Scott Tukes and Elebert Joseph Penots, she speaks of Marcel Duchamps and Man Rays. She fills their home with books and magazines, paintings and all the little things she finds charming. 

 

Ethan and Chris spent their evenings going through the music collection Mia got her hands around. It’s a bit of bands they have never heard of and some classical pieces, the other bit is easier to recognize. At some point, Ethan puts on The National every time Chris comes over. 

 

“Have I ever told you about the first time me and Ethan met?” Mia asks Chris, looking him in the eye. 

 

“Mia.” Ethan’s voice is firm. He looks to his wife and gives her a pleading look. 

 

Chris is not able to answer that no, he hasn’t , because Mia already has a smirk on her face, and he knows she’s going to tell the whole story anyway.

 

“We set up a date over Facebook, because Ethan didn’t have a phone.” Mia starts and Ethan groans into his hands. “I go to the café we were supposed to meet at. He’s sitting at one of the tables with a laptop that looks like somebody stepped on it.”

 

“I dropped my phone, and it got fucked up. The laptop was the only thing I had left.”

 

“Ethan, who doesn’t have a phone?” 

 

“A lot of people!” Ethan shrugs dramatically. 

 

“He called people through Skype. On his laptop,” Mia is looking at Chris, her face half a smile, half a grimace. 

 

“And you worked as an IT system engineer?” Chris shoots at Ethan and grins when the other man makes a sound of displeasure. 

 

“How is that relevant? That’s not relevant!” 

 

“I mean… It kind of is,” Mia points out. 

 

“No, it’s not! That was before I graduated.”

 

“Whatever you say,” she puts a hand on his shoulder, and Ethan glances at her with brows furrowed, “I go to him, we greet each other, we order our drinks. He talks about college, I talk about college, you know the usual, nothing interesting, and then there’s the Skype ringtone coming out of his laptop and he’s like “Wait, I gotta take this,” she’s trying to imitate Ethan’s voice and the man rolls his eyes at her, “and he walks out with the laptop and I can see him talking to it.”

 

“No way,” Chris chuckles, and when Ethan gives him a look, and he’s almost pouting, Chris laughs.

 

“She’s not lying,” Ethan sighs, “listen, it could have been much worse.” 

 

“It could have been. I married you after all.” Mia gets up and presses a kiss to her husband’s cheek. 

 

He meets Ethan’s eye, and they smile at each other. It almost feels like they’re sharing a secret. There’s a flutter of joy that sets itself in Chris’ muscles and bones. Warmth spreads and wraps around him. 

 

His world is filled with pain and blood and broken hearts, but occasionally he gets to sit here, in the house where Ethan plays the piano, soft melodies filling the rooms, and where the walls are filled to the brim with Mia’s cooking. A house where Chris is able to rest in, a house that lets him grow. He wants to catch that security in his hands, put it in a jar, keep it at the back of his cupboard. He wants to drink it and eat it and wrap his arms around it, never letting go. 

 

Looking at Ethan and Mia, he thinks, that he can’t help loving them. He traces his fingers over the affection, and it’s fuzzy, it tickles, and like a feather, it’s light. 

Notes:

davi: SKYPE???????????? thats the worst thing you could have done to ethan make him use skype

my twitter

Chapter 3: 3.

Notes:

thank you tammy for the beta and warm words.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

A note on the piano… and another… and another… and the melody builds up. Sound after sound, the world comes back to life.

 

Chris opens his eyes, the light of the morning sun hitting his face. His vision is foggy, and it feels like something died in his mouth.

 

The air is filled with something comforting, a smell of sweetness, kindness, like a freshly baked pie or fried batter. When he lifts his head up, he sees Mia in the kitchen. Then he directs his attention to the sound. Ethan is sitting at the piano. His feet are bare, and his hair is ruffled. He’s wearing a yellow cardigan. Soft notes of the music mix in with the scent of vanilla, eggs and flour, and Chris tries to remember when was the last time he ate pancakes. 

 

Chris has never heard Ethan play. The man had mentioned it in passing, a thought in between sentences. Long fingers and bony wrists now on the piano keys, Chris thinks that he would like to listen to Ethan play every day if he could. 

 

“Good morning,” says Mia, her smile glowing. “Pancakes?” She points to the frying food with her head. Chris nods. He sees Ethan turn his head slightly to him, never stopping his fingers from moving. Their eyes meet for a second and the blonde smiles, then gestures for him to sit down, next to him, in front of the piano. 

 

There, when he finally moves his legs, sitting right beside Ethan, he gets to watch the other man’s fingers dance and dance. Slow and full of grace, key after key, Chris feels himself, like a photo film, stained in the light, soaked in water and developing fluid, come to life. 

 

Then the song ends. One, neck growing hot, two, he meets his eyes, three, Ethan smiles, four, Chris takes his hand. Dub-dub lub, lub dub-dub, five and six, heart in his throat, blood on his tongue, Chris is in love. Mind kicking, legs twitching, gut dancing, Chris is in love. 

 

Ethan smiles down at their connected arms. If there is something that keeps Chris up at night, it’s how Ethan reacts to contact. Like he was born to sit squeezed together with Chris in front of that piano, like their hands are a part of a whole. 

 

It’s a moment that makes the world stay still. Their gazes connected, Ethan’s teeth showing in a small grin. Chris goes soft. Electric, mushed, cheekbones red. Looking straight back at him, eyes blue like the fresh stream water, Ethan has never been this close, this face to face with Chris. 

 

Ethan, sweaty and bruised in that house in Dulvey, Mia covered in dirt and blood. Chris looked at them, and never would he have thought that they were going to build a place of this size in his heart. Like a foal learns how to walk just after birth, like a bird knows how to fly, minutes and hours, then days and months, Chris would find himself in a room lit by candles, warm hands in his, a home meal in his stomach. 

 

It’s overwhelming at times. The full extent of the love and how little of it he dares to show. He knows they love him, he really does, but it’s never like that .  


Chris is not much of a cook. At least that’s what the take-out-filled-kitchen of his would suggest, and Chris would agree. 

 

Then Mia starts involving him, along with herself, in the kitchen. 

 

At first, he sees his hands unsuitable. At night, they’re made for killing. Dried blood on his skin, crimson beneath his nails and around his cuticles. There is filth on these hands, dark and revolting. Scars and scars, constantly healing. In the morning, they’re not much better. 

 

Mia wipes his hands clean. She gets them covered with honey and milk and eggs. She reminds him that there is time, when in between the cutting of vegetables and meat, they’re able to find it. 

 

Mia speaks of family, and brings Chris to places he has never had the chance to visit. For Mia, childhood was full of cherry jam, blocks of flats, Pokémon tokens and vacations spent on lakes’ fake beaches. She brings up her grandmother, the woman that taught her how to cook. She who would show how to braid pierogi and how to prepare the poppy paste for makowiec . How much honey to add to pierniki and how to assemble a krokiet .

 

In turn, Chris speaks of Claire. Her kind smiles, her red, red jackets and the hugs that she gives. He shows Mia the picture of her and himself that he keeps in his wallet, always close to himself. On the picture, they’re standing close. He’s twenty, maybe twenty-one, and Claire is not much older than fourteen years of age. Their smiles are bright, Claire showing off all of her teeth, Chris’ eyes full of laughter. He has his arm around her shoulder, and she’s standing on only one of her legs, leaning her weight against Chris, the other leg bent back in the air slightly. They’re so young that it almost pains Chris to look at them like that. 

 

It’s the afternoon, and they’re baking a challah. Ethan is working on the crumble, a sweet paste of sugar and butter. Mia and Chris wait for the dough to finally rise. 

 

Then a hand on his shoulder, fingers near his neck, Mia gets his attention.

 

“I’m pregnant,” she smiles, so wide, her cheeks are rounder than the sun.

 

Chris looks to Ethan and, sticky hands on his hips, he gives him the brightest of smiles. Chris feels like he’s about to burst. He laughs, holds them both, close, so close. He takes their hands and they take his. 

 

It’s simple, no balloons and no confetti. An announcement is all this really is, and Chris wouldn’t have been able to imagine it any different. 


Chris gets to see Rosemary soon after her birth. 

 

She is a ray of light in their lives. A warmth, present every day, always there. Since her first minutes, she becomes the center of their universe, the sun. Her laugh the reminder of their humanity, and her cries of joy the melody to go by. 

 

In Chris’ eyes, she’s impossibly small. It feels like he might break her when he touches her for the first time. Skin so pink, hair so light. Holding her tiny hands in his, in comparison, big palms, Chris fears letting go. 

 

It’s one of the first times that Chris sees Ethan cry. His eyes are all red and puffed up, and his ears and cheeks get rosy, and to him, he’s as pretty as always. 




Ethan answers the door with little Rose in his hands. He holds her closely to his chest and smiles up at Chris. 

 

“Come in,” he greets and moves aside to let Chris in.

 

It’s interesting for Chris, seeing Ethan like this. He moves with ease, keeping his daughter close to his chest, near his heart. There’s something tender and fragile about parenting. It’s like giving life meaning, putting the condition of the word inside this small universe that they build around their affection. Before they even breathe and blink their eyes, there’s love. 

 

“You want anything to drink?” Asks Ethan, pulling Chris out of his head. “Coffee?”

 

“Yeah, a coffee would be great.” 

 

“Okay, can you hold her for a second?” And before Chris knows it, Ethan is standing right in front of him, handing him his daughter gently. Chris takes her on instinct, one arm under her head, the other supporting her body. She laughs her little bubbly laugh and holds her hands out as if she wanted to touch Chris’ face. He leans down, and her tiny fingers sloppily press onto the man’s beard and nose. He can’t stop a smile. 

 

The thing is; Chris has never pictured himself with children. The idea of starting a family has always been so far away from him, misty and dusty. When he’s holding Rose, sometimes, deep inside, is the feeling of yearning. Maybe in another life, where there’s no undead, and where the world doesn’t seem like it’s ending every single day, maybe in that life Chris has children. Maybe it’s a life where he never meets Ethan and Mia, where he does not get to hold Rose, and Chris thinks, that maybe it’s not really a world for him. 

 

When Chris looks up, Ethan is leaning against the kitchen counter, smiling at the both of them, wrinkles around his eyes. His expression full of affection, his smile so kind that Chris feels a little bit self-conscious.

 

“Here,” Ethan puts the hot drink on the table and reaches to gently brush a thumb over Rose’s cheek. They’re standing close, Chris can smell the shampoo that Ethan uses. A herbal scent mixed in with the aroma of freshly grounded coffee beans that floats in the air. Then Ethan takes Rose back into his arms, but does not move back. 

 

“I think she likes you,” there is something gentle in his voice, as if he’s sharing a secret with Chris. There is something even softer in his gaze when he shoots Chris a quick look. “Don’t you Rose?” He plants a soft kiss on top of Rose’s small head, and she giggles.

 

If Chris were to be a father, he thinks, he would want to be a father like Ethan. 


It’s dark, deep, cold. He moves, and he has to drag his legs through the pool of blackness that he’s in. He thinks of the smell of iron and the sweet metallic taste on his tongue. Waking up, he’s soaked, hot, cold, freezing, burning. 

 

There are times when Chris would like to disappear. Get out of town, get out of country. He would like to be someone else, someplace where nobody knows him and where life is simple. 

 

There are times when he wonders how the people that he loves would react. What would Ethan do? Mia? On some days, he feels like it doesn’t matter at all. Looking up at his ceiling, medication already in his system, he sees life that does not involve him. Time and space where Chris Redfield, with chestnut hair and sky blue eyes, is not a part of reality. 

 

Chris is reckless. There are moments where it feels like loving Ethan and Mia is something that he could get away with. The feelings that bloom in his chest when Ethan smiles and laughs. When he sees him sketch and play the piano. The urges that he has when Ethan touches him and when he touches Ethan. Loving hands, sunny smiles and sand colored hair. Thoughts that swarm in his mind when Mia wraps her hands around his shoulders in a hug, when her lips brush over his cheek.

 

Chris fears love. He loves it too, but like a deer with antlers stuck, he feels bound to himself and himself only. When his heart beats faster, his breath hitches, his fingers go electric, it’s already too late. 

 

He knows he loves them. But do they love him? Do they love him like he loves them? Do they think of him when they’re in their arms and when their lips connect? Do they keep him in mind when at night they lay together, arms and legs entwined with each other, and when in the mornings they feel the warm sun on their skin together? 

 

There is a place for Chris in their house, he knows. But is there a place for Chris in their bones and blood? A room inside their hearts and stomachs? Do they drink him, like he drinks them? Hungry and rapid, hands covered with bits and pieces of their flesh?

 

When Chris drinks, it’s never home. He walks to the bar and, then, back from it. If he gets wasted, so be it. If he doesn’t, does that even matter?



Chris calls in the middle of the night and Ethan picks up. Chris is drunk and Ethan tells him to wait, tells him that he’ll pick him up. 

 

Ethan finds him. It’s raining, and the air is cold, and when he pulls up, Chris expects for him to be mad, but instead finds him quiet.

 

Engine on, the silence weighting down on them, it’s starting to rain. Ethan behind the wheel, Chris in the passenger seat, the world covered in darkness. Ethan turns his back to the door, his legs twisting with his body – he’s facing Chris now. 

 

“Are you okay?” Ethan’s hoarse voice breaks the air between them. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Chris looks down at his hands, fingers knotting with each other in all the possible ways.  

 

The blonde purses his lips, and before he’s able to reply, Chris says, “I love you.” A pause. He looks up at Ethan, “I am in love with you.” Ethan blinks; once, twice, and the other man looks away again, “I don’t want you to feel pressured. I can’t expect anything from you, and I am aware of that. I just needed you to know. I wanted you to know.” 

 

There is a moment of silence, the only sound being the raindrops hitting the car, and the sound of their breaths and beating hearts. 

 

Ethan leans forward, reaches out to grab Chris’ hand in both of his. “Hey, Chris, look at me. Please?” 

 

They both look at each other, and right there and then Ethan smiles at him, a wide, toothy grin. He brings the other man’s hand to his face and kisses his knuckles, gently. Knuckles that have gone through sweat, skin and bone and dirt. Hands that over time got rough to the touch. Hands that are still warm despite the cold and the rain. 

 

Chris turns his body slowly, with his other hand reaching gradually to Ethan’s face. He stops at his cheekbone, the left one. He slides the tips of his fingers across it, moving down to the blonde’s jawline, who now has his eyes closed, and a soft smile paints itself on his lips. Chris feels the breath of the other man, slow and steady, gentle and kind, so warm on his skin. 

 

“I love you,” says Chris once more, and he says it with everything he has. With all his heart and all his blood and muscle. With his bones and all of his little cells. He loves Ethan with everything that he is.

 

“Yeah, I know,” the blonde whispers, opening his eyes. Love and kindness spilling out of them, wrapping all around the other man.

 

“What about–”

 

“Mia? She knows. She was the one that noticed.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.” Ethan sighs.

 

“And I thought that… That you wouldn’t have wanted this.” 

 

“Me too,” and Chris almost laughs. 

 

Ethan now brings Chris’ hand to his face, himself reaching to run his fingers through Redfield’s hair. Breaths mangled, heavy eyelids, blunt nails. Then, when their lips meet it’s just for a second – it’s slow, slow, slow, fragile, and it’s terrifying. Not to get too close, not to lose too much space. More hands than mouths. 

 

“I love you too,” and it’s a whisper, followed by a kiss to the edge of Chris’ mouth, “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I, well, I always had Mia, and I love her, but I–I love you.”

 

Chris looks Ethan in the eyes. He can see the tiny, almost non-existent freckles on the man’s nose, a scar on his temple and in between his brows. His eyes filled with laughter and joy, and, Chris dares to think, love as well. His eyelashes are long, brushing his cheeks every time he blinks, his cheekbones a light shade of pink. Chris puts a hand around Ethan’s jaw, cups his face, and the other man leans into the touch, a little smile painting itself on his lips. Looking at Ethan this up close feels, to Chris, like falling in love with him all over again.

 

“What’s going to happen now?” Chris glazes his fingertips over Ethan’s jawline. 

 

“We go home.”





In his dreams, there are hands around his torso and hands on his face. Scaling his body, the hands tangle with his, and then they are one, together as one organism. He wakes. Ethan’s hair tickles the back of his neck; Mia’s breath brushes against his face. Wrapped tightly, together, he can see Rose sleeping soundly in her crib. Lavender sky, with the moon still hanging on, Chris goes back to sleep.

Notes:

i did not forget about this fic nor did i give up on it so here it finally is. i hope it was not a mess to read. it was a mess to write but i had lots of fun still. here's to my first finished fic!

 

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Notes:

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also a winterfield playlist ive made for this fic: spotify