Chapter Text
It was hot.
It was really, really hot.
Ethel’s clothes stuck to his slim figure as he tossed and turned in his sleep, desperate to find the sweet relief of slumber. It never came.
The seven year old listened to the sound of nearing sirens, wondering who they could be for. His mother had told him when he was even younger, when he heard a siren, it meant someone was going to be saved. Ethel had prodded further,
‘Saved from what, mama?’ He had asked that morning, shoveling rice krispies into his mouth.
'All kinds of things babe. If you’re in danger, you call 9-1-1, and they’ll come and help. Whether there’s a bad guy in the house, or you old ma fell down the stairs,’ she had teased.
Ethel noticed the sirens grew louder, pondering getting up and watching the lights drive past his windows. They were definitely close enough by now. He became very aware of how sticky and humid his room seemed to be, his blankets heavy and dense. He sat up, flicking on the lamp.
It didn’t turn on.
Okay, the bulb must be dead. Perhaps off. The seven year old threw his cover off, swinging his legs onto the floor. It was uncomfortably warm.
Shrugging it off, Ethel got on his knees to check the plug in. It was pushed in all the way. The seven year old finally began to panic, realizing the sirens were deafening.
He shot up, running over to his window. There was a large red firetruck in his driveway, and strange people in scary suits running around. He noticed a red and yellow glow on the ground. One of the firefighters noticed him, pointing up to his second story bedroom.
Ethel froze in terror, ice running through his veins. What was happening?
He ran to his door, desperate to get to his mothers. He grabbed the door handle, attempting to twist. It took a few seconds before the pain set in.
He shrieked, ripping his hand from the knob. His hand and fingers throbbed, his flesh red and blistered. Tears filled his eyes, and he screamed.
The boy trembled, stumbling back away from the door, only now realizing the small flames that licked at the bottom. Somewhere in his small, seven year old mind, it registered what was happening.
“Mama! Mom!” Ethel screamed, trying to get his mother’s attention. There was no answer. He became aware of the low roar of fire, the cracking of the wood.
He continued backwards as the flames traveled up the paint, consuming his wall and door. He held a hand in front if his face, the light blinding.
His shoulder brushed a plastic shelf, knocking it over. Papers and books spread across the floor, and the flammable material instantly burst into flame. Soon, half of the boy’s room was in flames.
His back now to the window, Ethel stood still with fear. The room was so hot, so unbearably hot. The boy’s mouth so dry, so unbearably dry. There was no more room, no more-
And then, it happened.
His pajama sleeve caught fire.
The next two minutes went by in a blur. Ethel screaming has his shirt caught fire, barely noticing the smashing glass from behind him. A hand grabbing his shirt, ripping him from the room just on time. His shirt being stomped out, but not until his entire left side was covered in third degree burns. Being thrown onto a gurney and rushed to the hospital in an ambulance, and passing out.
•••
Fifteen years had passed since that night. Fifteen years of physical healing. Emotional healing? That was another story.
Ethel didn’t talk to many people anymore, both his mothers had died in that fire, and he was thrown into the foster system before a chance to say goodbye to anyone. It was a sad, lonely life from then on. Only when he was in college did he make a friend, Remy Nyte.
Remy was Ethel’s exact opposite. The insomniac was charismatic, didn’t care about people who stared at his crop-tops, heels, or large earrings. He didn’t care about how people looked at him when he called them pet names.
Ethel, on the other hand, cared a lot about how others perceived him. But he was good at not allowing others to see that. In fact, Ethel was an exceptional liar. A compulsive liar, if you will. Years in the foster system caused him to grow cold and calloused, doing what he had to.
Remy didn’t mind this, of course.
The two hung out often, sleepovers and long phone calls were normal, routine. Remy would call Ethel when he couldn’t sleep, which was almost every night. The two got along really well, which surprised most people.
Then, Remy met his soulmate. Soulmates was that special someone were meant to be with, someone you would love and cherish, someone with whom you were 100% compatible. You knew who they were by what you’d call a fatestring, a small thin piece of unbreakable yarn that was attached to someone else’s finger. No one could see or touch it except you and your soulmate.
Remy had explained his as a soft peach color, and spoke of it with a softness Ethel was unfamiliar with coming from the diva. Remy said that he and his soulmate would pluck back and forth to each other, not doing anything but enjoying the feeling.
Ethel wished his would do that. All he got was a sharp tug when he’d try. He’s had the small green string all his life, even as he was ripped from that window.
Emile was a sweet guy, he really was. Cute, kiddy colors, and a love for anything cartoon.
'Opposites must really attract,’ Ethel had though the day he met the boy. Remy seemed more than happy though, a smile donned widely across his pale face.
Ethel was happy for them, he really was.
Funny enough, it all happened on the same day. The day Remy found his soulmate, Ethel had lost his own.
•••
“Look, I’m really happy for you guys, really, but I gotta go,” Ethel stated, standing up from Remy’s couch awkwardly.
Remy waved him off, “Mkay gurl, do what you want, I’m not stopping anybody.”
“I’ll see ya tomorrow!” Emile said, smiling widely. Ethel gave him an appreciative nod, before throwing on his coat and stepping out. The second he closed the door behind him, he gave a sigh of relief. The air in there was awkward, and he felt like he had been third-wheeling something awful.
Oh well, no way to fix it now.
Ethel ran a hand through his hair, picking up his beloved bowler hat he wore outside sometimes. He traveled down the hallway, through the door that lead to the stairs, and briskly walked into the cold evening air. He buried his nose behind a scarf, thankful for the cover up of his awfully scarred face.
His apartment was only a few blocks away, and it didn’t take too long for him to arrive. He hung up his clothing and relaxed onto the couch, flicking on the television. Nothing good was on.
He rolled over, turning it off. He didn’t have much else to do, so he debated maybe going out to eat. He did have a bit of money saved up and there was this really nice-
A sharp pain shot through his arm, shooting straight through his heart. It began to beat rapidly. What was that?
He sat up, rubbing circles over the organ under his chest, his ribcage rising and falling with each rapid intake of oxygen.
Another flash of pain, longer this time.
Ethel yelped, jumping up. Another pain, and this time it didn’t go away. It only worsened.
He let out a sharp cry, clutching at his rapidly beating heart, his hand filled with a searing pain. Everything began to hurt, his muscles tight, tears pouring from his eyes.
He fell backward onto the coffee table, rolling over it.
Oh God, oh God it hurt so bad.
A feeling of emptiness hit him. He felt nausea build in his stomach. Something was missing, gone. Something was gone, gone gone.
What was it? What was he missing? Damnit what was gone?
Missing, gone, not coming back, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone. A void to never be filled.
He crawled back against a wall, the pain so intense he couldn’t find it in him to scream. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like days.
By the time it began to fade, he was already unconscious, leaning against the wall.