Chapter 6: The Couch That Smells Like Cedar
The hallway stretched into darkness, a long throat of shadow that swallowed the weak glow from the bathroom nightlight. Ender had been walking it for hours. Back and forth. Back and forth. His bare feet made no sound on the worn floorboards, but his ribs sang with every step—a dull, persistent ache that kept time with the circling thoughts in his head.
You're his. I'll come get you myself.
Pete's voice. Crackling through the phone line, tinny and distant, but still sharp enough to draw blood. Josh had told him what Pete said. Hadn't softened it, hadn't lied. Just laid it out flat and let Ender sit with it.
Three days.
Three days of safety, of pancakes and quiet mornings and the smell of wood smoke. Three days of Josh's steady presence, his careful hands, his eyes that never lingered too long on the bruises.
And now this.
Ender stopped at the end of the hallway. Pressed his palm against the wall. The wood was cool beneath his fingers, grounding. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
Sleep wouldn't come. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Pete's face. The twist of his mouth when he was angry. The way his knuckles looked right before they connected with bone. The sound he made when he was drunk and mean and looking for someone to hurt.
Ender had spent five years learning how to disappear. How to make himself small. How to swallow his own voice until it was nothing but a rasp in his throat. He'd gotten good at it. Too good.
But Josh had cracked him open.
Josh had held him while he cried. Had fed him pancakes and bought him new glasses and told him he was family. Had sat beside him on the porch and promised to protect him.
And now Ender couldn't sleep because he was terrified it would all disappear.
He heard the creak of a floorboard.
Not his own.
Ender's heart stuttered. He turned, ready to run, to hide, to—
Josh stood at the other end of the hallway.
He was wearing a threadbare t-shirt and loose flannel pants, his hair a mess of sleep-tousled waves. His eyes were half-lidded, but sharp. Watching.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
Ender shook his head.
Josh didn't ask why. Didn't offer platitudes or solutions. He just walked past Ender, into the living room, and settled onto the couch.
The quilt was bunched on the armrest—the same quilt from the first night, the one that still smelled faintly of smoke and something older, something that lingered like a ghost. Josh pulled it down, spread it over his lap, and looked up at Ender.
"You coming?"
Ender's feet moved before his brain caught up.
The couch cushions sagged under his weight. The fabric was rough against his bare arms, worn thin in places. He sat close to Josh—close enough that their shoulders brushed, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off Josh's skin.
Neither of them spoke.
The wind chimes outside had gone quiet. The house settled around them, creaking and sighing like an old animal. Ender stared at the wall. At the stains that mapped years of neglect. At the faint outline of something that used to hang there, a rectangle of lighter paint surrounded by grime.
He thought about Pete. About the way Pete's voice had cracked through the phone line. About the promises he'd made.
I'll come get you myself.
Ender's hands were shaking.
He pressed them into his thighs, tried to still them, but the tremor wouldn't stop. It traveled up his arms, into his chest, settled somewhere behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.
Josh shifted beside him. His arm came up—slow, careful, giving Ender every chance to pull away. When Ender didn't move, Josh let his hand rest on Ender's shoulder.
The touch was light. Barely there.
But it was enough.
Ender turned.
He didn't think. Didn't plan. Just moved—twisting on the couch, reaching, pressing his mouth against Josh's before he could talk himself out of it.
The kiss was clumsy. Desperate. Ender's lips were chapped, his jaw still sore, and he didn't know what he was doing, didn't know how to do this without fear, without waiting for the blow that always followed.
But Josh didn't hit him.
Josh groaned.
The sound vibrated through Ender's mouth, low and rough, and then Josh's hands were on him—one cupping the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, the other gripping his hip and pulling him closer.
"Ender," Josh breathed against his lips. "Fuck."
Ender didn't answer. Couldn't. He just pressed harder, kissed deeper, climbed into Josh's lap like he was drowning and Josh was the only thing keeping him afloat.
Josh's hands slid under his shirt.
The touch was electric. Skin against skin, warm and calloused and real. Josh's fingers traced the curve of his spine, the jut of his hip bones, the softness of his belly. They brushed against bruises and didn't flinch.
"I've got you," Josh murmured. He pulled back just enough to look at Ender's face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. "You hear me? I've got you."
Ender nodded. His throat was too tight for words.
Josh kissed him again—softer this time. Slower. He took his time, mapping Ender's mouth with his tongue, tasting him like he was something precious. His hands kept moving, kept exploring, kept learning the shape of Ender's body through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Then he tugged.
The shirt came up. Over Ender's head. Off.
The air was cool against his bare skin. Ender shivered, but not from the cold. He was exposed now—every bruise, every scar, every mark Pete had left behind. They mapped his torso like a constellation of violence. Purple and yellow and green, fading at the edges, but still vivid. Still there.
Josh looked at him.
Really looked.
His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists. For a moment, Ender thought he might pull away, might see the damage and decide it was too much.
But Josh didn't pull away.
He leaned forward instead.
His lips touched the first bruise—a mottled purple splotch just below Ender's collarbone. The kiss was feather-light, reverent. Like a prayer.
"Fuck," Josh whispered against his skin. "What did he do to you?"
Ender couldn't answer. His eyes were burning. His chest was heaving.
Josh kissed the next bruise. Then the next. He worked his way down Ender's chest, lips brushing over every mark, every scar, every place Pete had hurt him. He didn't rush. Didn't skip the ugly ones. He kissed them all.
"I've got you," he kept saying. "I've got you. I've got you."
Ender's hands found Josh's hair. His fingers twisted into the dark waves, holding on like Josh was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet.
Josh's mouth moved lower.
Over the dip of his stomach. Over the trail of pale hair below his navel. His tongue dipped into Ender's belly button, and Ender gasped—a raw, startled sound that echoed through the quiet room.
"You like that?" Josh asked.
"Yes," Ender breathed. "God, yes."
Josh smiled against his skin. His hands found the waistband of Ender's sweatpants. He tugged, just enough to expose the sharp jut of his hip bones, and pressed his mouth there—open-mouthed kisses that left Ender's skin slick and tingling.
Then he pulled the pants down.
Ender's cock sprang free.
It was already hard, already leaking, already aching with a need he hadn't felt in years. Pete had never touched him like this. Pete had never touched him at all, unless it was to hurt him. Ender had almost forgotten what desire felt like. What it felt like to be wanted.
Josh looked at him.
"Beautiful," he said.
Ender's face burned.
"Shut up," he mumbled.
Josh laughed. Low and warm and genuine. "Make me."
Then he bent his head and swallowed Ender whole.
The world went white.
Ender's hips bucked. His hands fisted in Josh's hair. A sound tore out of his throat—something between a moan and a sob—and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.
Josh's mouth was hot. Wet. Perfect.
He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, working his tongue along the underside of Ender's cock, finding the spot just below the head that made Ender's vision blur. His hands gripped Ender's thighs, holding him steady, and he moved—slow, deep, taking Ender all the way to the back of his throat.
"Fuck," Ender gasped. "Fuck, Josh, oh god—"
Josh hummed. The vibration traveled up Ender's spine like lightning.
He pulled off, just long enough to catch his breath, then went back down. Bobbing his head in a rhythm that was almost cruel in its patience. He didn't rush. Didn't hurry. He took his time, savoring every inch, every sound Ender made.
The room filled with obscene, wet noises. Slurping and sucking and the quiet groan Josh made every time Ender's cock hit the back of his throat.
Ender was losing his mind.
His hips moved on instinct, thrusting into Josh's mouth, and Josh took it—took all of it, every desperate inch, every frantic movement. His hands slid up Ender's thighs, fingers digging into the flesh, holding him open.
"Josh," Ender panted. "Josh, I'm—I'm gonna—"
Josh didn't pull away.
He sucked harder.
Ender came with a shout.
His body convulsed. His vision went dark. Pleasure ripped through him like a hurricane, tearing through every nerve, every cell, every fiber of his being. He felt Josh swallow around him—once, twice, three times—and the sensation was so intimate, so raw, that Ender started to cry.
Not from sadness. Not from pain.
From relief.
He sagged against the couch, boneless and trembling, and Josh pulled off him with a wet pop. His lips were red, swollen, slick with spit and come. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful.
"C'mere," Josh said.
He tugged Ender down onto the quilt.
The fabric was rough against Ender's bare skin. He landed on his side, facing away from Josh, and Josh pressed up behind him—chest to back, hips to ass, warm and solid and safe.
One of Josh's hands slid around Ender's waist. The other cupped his jaw, tilting his head back.
"You okay?" Josh asked.
Ender nodded. His throat was raw. His eyes were wet.
"Words," Josh said. "I need words."
"I'm okay." Ender's voice cracked. "I'm okay. I just—I've never felt like this before."
Josh kissed the back of his neck.
"Like what?"
"Like I matter."
Josh's arm tightened around him.
"You matter," he said. "You matter so fucking much."
Then he reached down and undid his own pants.
Ender felt the press of Josh's cock against his ass—hot and hard and thick. His breath caught.
"Is this okay?" Josh asked.
Ender nodded. Then, remembering, he said, "Yes. Please. Yes."
Josh spit into his palm. The sound was obscene in the quiet room—wet and slick and filthy. He reached down, dragged his fingers through the mess of come on Ender's stomach, and used it to slick himself up.
"Tell me if it hurts," he said.
Then he pushed in.
Ender gasped.
The stretch was intense—sharp and burning and so, so good. Josh moved slowly, giving him time to adjust, letting him feel every inch as it slid inside. His hand stayed on Ender's chest, splayed over his heart, grounding him.
"Breathe," Josh murmured. "Just breathe."
Ender breathed. Out. Out.
The pain faded. The pleasure took its place—deep and aching and perfect. Ender had never felt so full. So complete. So wanted.
Josh started to move.
Slow at first. Gentle. His hips rocked in a steady rhythm, and his hand on Ender's chest kept him pressed close, kept him safe. His mouth found Ender's ear, his neck, his shoulder—pressing kisses to every inch of skin he could reach.
"Stay," he whispered.
Ender's eyes fluttered shut.
"Stay with me."
A tear slid down Ender's cheek.
"Stay."
Yes. God, yes.
Ender's own cock, spent just minutes ago, twitched back to life. It was almost painful—too soon, too much—but Josh reached down and wrapped his hand around it, stroking in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me again," he said. "I want to feel it."
Ender's back arched.
The pleasure was building again—deeper this time, darker, pulling at something primal in his gut. Josh's hand moved faster. His hips snapped harder. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, of breathless moans, of Josh's low, filthy whispers.
"Stay. Stay. Stay."
Ender shattered.
He came with a sob, spilling over Josh's hand, clenching tight around Josh's cock. He felt Josh shudder behind him—felt his hips stutter, felt his grip tighten—and then Josh was coming too, buried deep, groaning Ender's name like it was the only word he knew.
The world went quiet.
Josh held him.
Slowly, gently, he pulled out and pulled Ender closer. His arms wrapped around him like a cage—but a good cage, a safe one. The kind that kept the monsters out instead of locking him in.
Ender pressed his face into the quilt.
The tears kept coming.
"I've got you," Josh whispered. "I've got you. You're safe. You're here. You're mine."
Ender didn't know if he deserved this. Didn't know if he'd earned it. But he felt something inside him—something old and dying—start to heal.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in five years, Ender slept through the night.