Ethan was tired. He was tired of running, he was tired of pretending, and he was sick and tired of everything he touched bleeding out in front of him. Usually he could deal. Usually he could push the bone-deep exhaustion down far enough to just get by. But tonight, everything that he tried to suppress flew back in his face. From the gory penny dreadful to Brona snapping at him in the street, from the nauseating rat-pit to getting the crap kicked out of him when he tried to escape and they just wouldn't leave him alone.
And now. Now he was alone with Dorian Grey, drinking funky green shit and listening to an opera about dead lovers at god-knows-what-hour and he just couldn't do it anymore. The music was swelling, crescendoing, and his head was buzzing with whatever he was drinking and he was just…done. Snippets of the past few days swirled around him; dancing in his minds-eye, taunting him with his failures.
He had tried to do right. Tried to help people, tried to combat evil in whatever form it took, but for every forward step he made it seemed he slid back ten. He was slipping, losing his grip on himself, and he was just so tired.
So he let go. Stormed across the room and took Dorian Grey by the throat. He wasn't sure what he was going to do until he did it; but when he kissed him full on the mouth it was with the knowledge that he was throwing his life out the window. He couldn't get away from his father, he couldn't stop Brona from dying, hell sometimes he couldn't even control himself. So what was the point? Everything ended horribly no matter where he turned. Why bother even trying anymore? So he kissed him. He practically tore his shirt off as well, needing to make his intent absolutely clear.
He expected a struggle. He expected more violence. He half expected to be thrown out on the spot, maybe even turned in to the police. But what he didn't expect, as he looked at Dorian, waiting for the recoil, the repulsion, was acceptance. He saw mild interest, an attitude of expectation as if this was what he had been waiting for all night. And when Dorian reached over and began to undo his shirt he was almost angry.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He had crossed a line, deliberately done something that was so wrong as to only be talked of with whispered derision and vague innuendoes, and he had done so knowingly. He wanted to face the consequences of that action. He wanted to start a fight; he wanted to hit something, to have someone hit him. Yet here was Dorian Grey, accepting this abominable assault on his person like it was normal.
He jerked his shirt off when Dorian made to do it; a half-hearted stab to try to foil this man's attempt to ruin his own effort at throwing his life to the wind. But when Dorian kissed him again, soft and undemanding, he found his hand cupping the back of Dorian's head with equal gentleness. When they broke apart Ethan looked into Dorian's eyes and, seeing nothing but the beginnings of arousal, started to hope.
Maybe it would be ok. Maybe he didn't have to hold too tight. Maybe, just for tonight, he could let someone else be in control. So when he bent his head to continue what he has started he did nothing to take charge. He let Dorian lead. For once he gave up and simply let events take their course. This was mostly new territory for him while Dorian seemed to know exactly what he wanted. Sure he'd thought about men before, in the biblical sense, but short of some back-alley hand jobs he used to pay the rent he'd never acted on any of them.
But it felt right. It felt right to let Dorian take control of the kiss, even though he was taller. It was natural to sink to the floor after a while, limbs entangled and gasping for breath. It was easy to let Dorian roll him onto his stomach and pull his hips in the air. It was simple to let Dorian fuck him senseless, his guttural moans and grunts echoing in the room and mingling with the record and Dorian's own panting breath. And when he finally found release it felt good to lose the last vestige of control and fling himself off the edge.
When he woke in the early morning a few hours later he ached in a number of places. His face and torso from the beating he had taken, the memory of the slap Brona had given him, and a new, unfamiliar and barely explored place deep inside. The last was not unpleasant per se, but it served as a reminder. He found himself focusing on it as he gather his things and left quietly, using it to anchor himself and find his footing.
He walked quickly through the streets in the dawn light, head down and his hands in his pockets. But they were not tightly clenched like the usually were, he felt more relaxed than he remembered feeling for a very long time. He had found hope again, and he would be damned more than he already was if he would allow himself to lose sight of it once more.