Before Steve, before Christian, before all the scars that could be seen—there was Elias.
Joe was thirteen when he met Elias at a foster home on the east side of the city. Joe had just been relocated again—another caseworker, another bedroom, another family that saw him as a burden more than a boy. Elias, two years older and sharper in every way, had already figured out how to survive the system.
"You keep your mouth shut, your fists ready, and your heart dead," Elias told him on the first day, slumped against a peeling wall with a cigarette behind his ear and blood on his knuckles.
But Joe—he had too much heart. Always did.
Elias protected Joe in his own twisted way. Fought for him. Shared stolen candy bars. Sat with him through the long silences. Joe admired him—no, he worshipped him. When Elias snuck into Joe's bed at night just to "make the nightmares go away," Joe said nothing. Even when Elias kissed him, not softly but like he was trying to burn the world down through his mouth, Joe accepted it.
Because for the first time in his life, someone saw him. Touched him. Wanted him.
Even if it hurt.
Especially when it hurt.
Because Joe had learned by then—love wasn't something that saved you. It was something you paid for. With silence. With obedience. With pieces of yourself you didn't even realize you were giving away until there was nothing left.
He never told anyone what Elias did. Not even when Elias left in the night and never came back. That abandonment, sharp and ugly, stayed with him like a phantom limb. Every relationship after that felt like a reenactment—Joe giving too much, too fast, hoping someone would choose to stay.
He became addicted to being needed. Not loved—he didn't believe in that. But needed. If he could be useful, wanted, irreplaceable—maybe then he wouldn't be left behind again.
And then came Steve.
Steve, who reminded him of Elias in all the worst and best ways.
Steve, who never asked for Joe's heart but took it anyway.
Joe saw the same violence in him, the same loneliness that burned from behind his eyes like smoke from an old fire. Joe thought: This time I'll do it right. I'll love him better. I'll make him stay.
He made himself into a shadow, always around, always helping, never demanding. A good soldier. A loyal dog. Anything to keep Steve close.
But deep down, Joe wasn't just in love. He was terrified. Terrified of being alone. Terrified of silence. Terrified that if Steve walked away, he'd be thirteen again in that freezing bedroom, waiting for someone who would never come back.
So when Christian appeared—clean, quiet, soft in all the ways Joe wasn't—it was more than jealousy. It was mourning.
He wasn't just losing Steve. He was losing the only illusion he ever had: that if you loved someone hard enough, they'd stay.