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He finds Etho on the north-facing balcony.
It feels like breathing the way Bdubs takes in the subtle tension that draws bony shoulders taut, observable even in spite of Etho's slouch. He thinks he could spot that disguised discomfort anywhere; even when the true tell comes from long, thin fingers playing at the lining of his pants' pockets.
They belong sunk deep into those same pockets that Bdubs knows are deeper than they have any right to be. Etho prefers them that way—won't wear a pair of pants whose pockets he couldn't claim an extra inventory slot from. Etho hadn't so much as blinked the time Bdubs called it for the cheat it was, had only shrugged and shook his head with a poorly concealed grin at every claim there'd been a "-breech of ethics!"
They'd both known Bdubs' voice held no heat; it isn't often his loud proclamations aren't a mere guise for his approval. Though, Bdubs barely would've had a soap box to stand on even if he had been angry, not when his morality practically becomes tissue paper in the face of Etho's…well, of Etho's anything.
His amused stare, his faux gestures of hurt and mournful claims of "ow" anytime Bdubs makes a valid point against him. His defined spikes of white hair, whose pale shade looks almost orange in the soft haze of glowstone cast from the rafters above. Maybe if the ticking of time hadn't leant its weight between them Bdubs may have called up—accused Etho of dying his hair just to see Etho's wild grin at the sight of the other.
Instead, he lets the gentle silence of night surround the two-story cottage, fingers coasting across the oak newel at the bottom of the porch. Besides, speaking might ruin the painting before him, Etho's head tipped toward a forest whose trees are better described as dim shadows than tall pines.
Dim, because it doesn't feel right to call the surrounding area dark. It's never "dark" on a server like Hermitcraft; light seeps from the pores of every building, like stars in a moonless sky.
Bdubs can't say he's ever minded it as he dares a step onto the beehive flooring and then the exterior oak stairs of the cottage. The small bursts of light feel like the warm greeting of an opened front door, a promise of safety after the sun has slipped beneath the horizon and given way to a sky of pink and gold and the groans of mobs.
The lights are on, and everyone is home, even when they aren't. There's a sense of comfort to be found there. Somewhere.
Etho must not share the sentiment because his face pinches as Bdubs reaches the balcony landing. It's only the heavy pull of guilt that keeps Bdubs from knocking Etho's shoulder to try and disperse each crinkle of skin. What are those doin' here, he wants to tease, save them for the mess of redstone you can't keep far from.
It doesn't fit here, mismatched eyes cast beyond the tree line when they should be lost in complex circuits Bdubs can never make sense of.
Etho's head drops between his shoulders to sink into his awaiting palms, pressing his elbows and weight into the railing. The spruce gates groan beneath the additional stress; Bdubs had meant to fix that weeks ago, a challenge that had arisen to prove his carpentry skills against Etho's soft laughter.
…he'd meant to do a lot of things weeks ago. The time just hadn't been there—not when anger and distance had felt easier to swallow than the idea of tense silence.
"Oh Bdubs," Etho mumbles through his fingers. Bdubs thinks he's never heard words sound so soft yet weighted, trapped in an oxymoron that still sounds like heaven if only because it was Etho who'd said them. "What are we doing?"
There's a strange sense of tranquility that blankets over Bdubs as he too pushes forward to lean into the railing, crossing his arms and resting them on the spruce fence gates. The nights persists beyond them, cool with a breeze that would mark it perfect for hot drinks and the stoking of a fire.
Just say the word, Bdubs thinks to himself. I'll spend all night collecting logs and sticks, just tell me what to do.
But Etho never speaks, and Bdubs suppresses a shiver against the next gust of wind. "What we always do." He finds he doesn't mind the gentle company that the following silence brings.
Because that's the truth, isn't it? They banter. Throw mindless jabs and snark that bear no heat until they do. They fall from the other's orbit like a meteoroid had struck them off course, spiraling until absence becomes more intimidating than that first breath of "hello."
There is no apology. No dramatic scene where their eyes finally meet across the hub and the world feels dull compared to the other's timid smile.
Only the gentle knock on a wooden door, knowing that time to them is a synonym for reflection.
"Do you ever think we should stop?"
The beginnings of panic skirt beneath the tips of Bdubs' fingernails, his throat squeezing out a shaky breath of air. It spirals into white fog before him, disorganized and chaotic before it dissipates.
He forces another breath into his lungs just as quickly, tapping his fingers against the spruce gates. Maybe if Bdubs were younger he might've taken Etho's words to be a bid for affirmation about their relationship. But he isn't—Etho's words don't feel uncertain the way they ring within Bdubs' head. More like an ask for a moment they'll feel nostalgic for in a year's time, when things aren't such a…mess.
For a moment not unlike the ones they spend bundled indoors, joking about Etho's newest bug in an old redstone contraption or blueprints that make no sense but Etho entertains anyway just to see Bdubs' finished product.
"No," a tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and for a moment Bdubs is glad Etho isn't looking at him. He imagines it looks a little sad. "I don't know if I could go back to…"
To before. To the fleeting glances and head nods barely visible from across the Shopping District. To having to ask around to know where Etho was and rely on server events to hold a conversation longer than simple pleasantries.
To a life in which Etho doesn't take centerstage, Bdubs' shyest performer.
Etho laughs then, quiet and low like he has no choice but to agree with Bdubs' thoughts. "Shyest?" Bdubs imagines him saying, his amusement clear as a sunny day. His pale eyebrows would quirk, and he'd lean in, as though Bdubs had something on his face worth inspecting. Or lips worth kissing. "I think you mean 'most humble.' Gotta save some spotlight for the others."
But Etho's laugh tapers into a hum. "Yeah," his head tilts toward Bdubs and it takes effort for Bdubs to not straighten his posture beneath those watchful eyes. It doesn't matter that Bdubs can hear the mirth seep back into Etho's voice, piece by piece.
Something inside him wants to perform—impress beneath the eye of someone he couldn’t imagine life without. "What would that be like?"
"Like losing my right arm."
It comes out far too earnest, knocking aside what had once been the offer of an easy joke. Etho doesn't seem to mind, however, and selfishly Bdubs turns to let himself meet those familiar eyes. The skin just below is creased the way Bdubs knows occurs only when an easy smile awaits beneath the black fabric of a mask, and he swears Etho's somehow managed to break the blocks beneath him the way it makes his stomach twist itself into knots.
Bdubs keeps his arms resting firmly on the fence gates. He doesn't want to untie them, not when each knot serves as proof that Etho is here and not hundreds of blocks away.
"I mean, we can't have that," Etho agrees. He looks thoughtful the way he tosses his gaze to the crown of Bdubs' head before he lets it drift back down to Bdubs' wide eyes. "Who else would finish the Nether Hub?"
Bdubs can't help his own short laugh. He hopes it doesn't sound as strangled as it feels, especially as Etho maneuvers himself around the balcony table and toward the house's entrance door.
This is it—Etho will offer an exchange of “goodnight” before Bdubs starts his long walk back home, avoiding his elytra just to ponder how much time Etho needs before-
“You coming?”
Bdubs blinks to find the house’s door held open, Etho’s figure framed in the gentle glow of lanterns just beyond him. His gaze leaves no room for argument and Bdubs moves before he can say something stupid like "not tonight" or "I'm sorry."
Warmth greets him at the doorway, the tension in Bdubs' shoulders unwinding to the sweet tune of relief and the gentle scent of cedarwood as the door slips shut behind them. He lets his eyes roam the interior of the base—one that he's come to know like the back of his hand.
Even still, Bdubs will never feel any less like a stranger entering it.
Every detail within these terracotta walls chants a pleasant mantra of "Etho." It's one Bdubs will follow blindly as he takes in each piece of furnishing before him as though it were new.
The single pillow on an orange couch because Etho only ever needs one. A distinct lack of rugs, fitting for someone whom preferred to wear their shoes indoors. Even the display cases full of trophies; no one could outmatch Etho's competitiveness when he set his sights on a minigame.
It may as well be heaven on earth the way everything flashes Etho's name in bright, neon signs. Everything except-
Bdubs freezes then, eyes glued to the dining table he's walked past—sat at hundreds of times before.
A single plate lays opposite of where Etho now sits, its accompanying cup full of what smells of white wine to pair with smoked slices of cod.
It takes a surprising amount of effort to tear his gaze away from the display despite its destination fleeing toward the tempting sea of Etho's eyes. The man has yet to touch his own plate, instead having chosen to rest both elbows on the table and balance his chin on the bridge of his fingers. His posture reads rigid, and if Bdubs didn't know better, he'd say that Etho looked nervous.
"Well?"
Bdubs' fingertips find the gentle engravings of the offered chair. It looks a little like forgiveness.