Chapter 2: Good Riddance, Then a Whisper
The shouting came first.
Not words—just noise, raw and ragged, ripping through the dark like a gunshot. Ender's body jerked awake before his brain caught up, every muscle locking tight, his heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape through his sternum.
Then the words arrived.
"YOU FUCKING WHORE!"
The bedroom door hit the wall so hard the doorknob punched a hole in the drywall. Pete stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, his silhouette vibrating with something Ender had seen before—that particular brand of fury that came when Pete's ego took a hit.
Ender blinked. His eyes were gritty, his mouth tasted like copper and stale air, and his entire body ached in ways that reminded him exactly what he'd been doing before sleep had claimed him. He didn't move. Didn't sit up. Just lay there in the twisted sheets, Josh's arm still heavy across his waist, and stared at his husband.
Pete's face was a study in ugliness. Red splotches climbed his neck. Spit flecked the corners of his mouth. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, and Ender noticed—with a distant, clinical detachment—that Pete was still wearing his jacket. Still had his shoes on. He must have come straight from wherever he'd been sticking his dick, must have gotten the text or the call or whatever had tipped him off, and driven home in a blind rage.
"Get up," Pete snarled. "Get the fuck up, you piece of shit. You think I wouldn't find out? You think I'm fucking stupid?"
Ender didn't move.
"With my brother?" Pete's voice cracked on the word, and for a second—just a second—Ender saw something that might have been genuine hurt beneath all the bluster. But it was buried so deep under years of neglect and cruelty that it barely registered. "My fucking brother, Ender? You spread your legs for my fucking brother?"
The lamp on the nightstand clicked on.
Josh's hand, reaching over Ender's body, casual as anything. The sudden light made Ender wince, made Pete's face go even redder, made the whole scene feel suddenly, brutally real.
"Hey, Pete," Josh said. Calm. Almost bored. He didn't sit up, didn't pull the sheets over himself, didn't do anything but lie there with his arm still draped over Ender's hip like he belonged there. "You're gonna wake the neighbors."
Pete made a sound—something between a scream and a growl—and lunged for the bed.
Ender finally moved. He sat up, slow, the sheets pooling around his waist, and held up one hand like he was stopping traffic.
"Don't," he said.
His voice came out flat. Empty. Devoid of the fear that should have been there, that would have been there a year ago, six months ago, even a week ago. He looked at Pete—really looked at him—and felt nothing but a vast, echoing exhaustion.
Pete stopped. His eyes were wild, darting between Ender and Josh, between the marks on Ender's neck and the scratches on Josh's shoulders and the undeniable evidence of what they'd been doing in this bed.
"You're fucking dead," Pete whispered. "Both of you. You're fucking dead."
"Okay," Ender said.
The word landed like a stone in still water. Pete's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"Okay?" he repeated, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Okay." Ender rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. He was so tired. So bone-deep tired. "You're gonna kill us. Fine. Can it wait until morning? I haven't slept."
"You—" Pete sputtered. "You think this is a joke? You think I'm playing around? I'm your husband, Ender. I'm your fucking husband, and you're in bed with—" He gestured wildly at Josh, who was watching the whole thing with an expression of mild interest, like he was watching a nature documentary about particularly stupid animals. "With HIM!"
"I know who he is, Pete."
"Then how could you—"
"Because he fucks me better than you ever did."
The words came out before Ender could stop them. Not shouted. Not screamed. Just said, flat and factual, like he was reading off a grocery list. Josh's fingers tightened on his hip. Pete's face went through about six different colors in the span of a second.
"What did you say to me?"
"I said he fucks me better than you ever did." Ender was fully awake now, the words coming easier, the numbness giving way to something that felt almost like relief. "He's fucked me better in one night than you managed in six years. He actually looks at me when we're in bed. He knows my name. He doesn't call me by his secretary's name or his ex's name or whatever random hookup he's thinking about while he's using me like a hole."
Pete was shaking. His whole body, trembling with rage.
"You're nothing," he said. "You're fucking nothing without me. You think Josh wants you? You think this means anything? He's just using you to get back at me. He's always been jealous. Always wanted what I had."
Josh laughed. Actually laughed, low and genuine, and Ender felt the sound vibrate through his ribcage.
"That's what you think?" Josh asked, sitting up now, the sheets falling away. He was unselfconscious in his nudity, comfortable in his skin—everything Ender had never been able to manage. "I've wanted Ender since before you two got married. I waited. I watched you treat him like garbage for years. And when he finally broke—when he finally came to me—I was there."
He turned to Ender, and his expression softened into something that made Ender's chest ache.
"Not because I wanted to get back at you," Josh said, still looking at Ender, only at Ender. "Because I wanted him. Because you never deserved him. Because someone should have been taking care of him all along, and it clearly wasn't going to be you."
Pete made a noise—a strangled, wounded sound—and Ender should have felt guilty. Should have felt something. But he was so tired, and the words were out, and the truth was sitting in the room with them like a third person, undeniable and enormous.
"Get out," Ender said.
Pete stared at him.
"What?"
"Get out of my bedroom." Ender lay back down, turning his back on his husband, curling into the pillow that still smelled like Josh's cologne. "Go file for divorce. Go tell everyone what a slut I am. Go do whatever you need to do. Just—" He yawned, jaw cracking with the force of it. "Just let me sleep."
Silence.
Then Pete's voice, smaller than before, almost broken: "You don't mean this. You can't mean this."
"I mean it."
"You love me."
"I used to." Ender's eyes were already closing. "I don't anymore."
The silence stretched, thin and brittle. Then footsteps, heavy and fast, retreating down the hallway. The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
Josh exhaled slowly. "Well," he said. "That went better than expected."
Ender didn't respond. He was already sinking, already drifting, the exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. He felt Josh shift behind him, felt the mattress dip, felt the warmth of his body pressing close.
Then Josh's mouth was at his ear, hot and damp, and his voice was low—that voice he used when he wanted to remind Ender exactly who was in charge.
"Good riddance," Ender mumbled, already half gone.
Josh chuckled. His hand slid over Ender's hip, down his stomach, lower. His fingers found Ender's cock under the twisted sheets, already half-hard despite everything, and Ender made a small, confused sound.
"You're not sleeping yet," Josh murmured.
"Josh, I'm—"
"You told him I fuck you better." Josh's teeth grazed Ender's earlobe. "That was sweet. But that attitude? The mouth on you? Telling him off like that?"
His hand moved. Slow. Deliberate.
"That needs to be corrected."
Ender's breath hitched. "I'm tired. I can't—"
"You can." Josh's thumb swept over the head, and Ender's hips jerked involuntarily. "You will. Because you belong to me now, and I don't let my things go to bed angry."
"I'm not angry."
"Good." Josh bit his shoulder. Hard enough to make Ender gasp. "Then this is just for me. Because I want to watch you fall apart one more time before you pass out. Because hearing you tell my brother to get out while I was still inside you was the hottest thing I've ever experienced, and I need to do something about it."
Ender tried to turn his head, tried to meet Josh's eyes, but Josh's free hand caught his chin and held him in place.
"You're going to let me fuck you," Josh whispered. "And you're going to like it. You're going to beg for it, and then you're going to fall asleep with my cum dripping out of you, and tomorrow morning we're going to figure out what comes next."
"Josh—"
"Beg."
Ender let out a shaky breath. His body was exhausted, aching, completely spent. But Josh's hand was working him with skill and purpose, and the heat was already building, and the words were rising in his throat like they always did when Josh looked at him like he was worth something.
"Please," he whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
Josh smiled against his skin. "That's my bitch."