BLESS YOU for asking about my guy Ezra. I'm long overdue to write some backstory content for him (and Sam).
This takes place several years before the beginning of Do No Harm.
WARNINGS: Chronic pain, BBU/BBU-Adjacent, past abuse, restraints mention
There are still some mornings when the feeling of a warm body next to him makes Ezra’s heart race before his mind can catch up. Today, blessedly, is not one of them.
It’s been almost a year since this thing between him and Sam was given a name. A year since the first night he fell asleep next to him—the accidental product of staying up late and talking for hours, as they had been doing for weeks—and woke up to the realization that he never wanted to wake up anywhere without Sam Easton again.
Mornings like this make Ezra certain he made the right decision.
(As if Sam ever gives him reason to doubt).
The light from the window catches on his golden curls as Sam stretches into awareness with a chorus of popping joints. “Good morning,” he groans.
Ezra props himself onto an elbow, smiling down at him. “Good morning,” he replies.
One blue eye pops open. “Are you watching me sleep?” he grumbles. “Weirdo.”
“Your snoring demands an audience.”
The other eye cracks into a glare. “I do not snore.”
“No.” Ezra agrees solemnly, shaking his head. “Definitely not.”
The comforter slides down as Sam pushes himself up, exposing the plane of his broad chest. He catches Ezra staring and smiles. “Can I kiss you?”
He still asks. Every time, he asks.
Ezra leans down and presses their lips together. He will never, ever tire of this feeling.
Things don’t escalate further. They rarely do in the mornings, but Sam never lets him feel guilty for it. Ezra is the first to pull away, parting with a final kiss to the tip of his partner’s nose. “Breakfast?”
“I can help,” Sam offers, because he will every time, even if they’ve been over it a hundred times.
“You’re on coffee duty only,” Ezra says. “We’ve only just patched up the burn marks on the wall from your last attempt at french toast.”
“Whatever you say.” Sam’s head falls dramatically into his pillow. Ezra allows himself a moment to stare. He is so beautiful. He is his.
“Come on,” Ezra says, nudging him under the covers before throwing them off. He swings his legs over his side of the bed.
The moment he tries to put weight down, pain flares up his leg. Perhaps it’s proof of how comfortable he has become in this room that he cannot stop the hiss that sucks through his teeth.
“What is it?” Sam is wide awake now. He sits up, and his eyes fall to where Ezra’s fingers massage the tender muscles in his leg. “Your knees?”
“It’s nothing,” Ezra insists, because it is. This is nothing new.
“Ezra.” His voice is soft. Concerned. “You can tell me if it’s getting bad again. How long has it been hurting?”
Would it be better if he told him the truth? That it never really stopped? That there is no permanent reprieve for Ezra when it comes to pain. There are only brief gasps for air between the worst of the spells.
Sam knows a lot. He knows details about his past; more than Ezra ever planned to tell anyone, once upon a time. But there are certain things that need not ever see the light of day.
There is no reason for Sam to know that his knees hurt—will always hurt—because his first Keeper used to make him kneel for hours on a gravel-dusted cement floor as punishment. Or that the Keeper after that would fall asleep and leave him tied in muscle-straining positions until daybreak. That injuries compounded on top of injuries with no time in between to heal.
Sam knows more about Ezra’s past than anyone ever will. But Ezra sees no reason to paint him pictures that will only keep him up at night.
Instead, he releases the grip on his knee and leans back to hold Sam’s hand. He meets his eyes and plants a kiss on his cheek. “I am fine, Samuel,” he says. And he means it.
Today is a good day, but even on the bad ones, Ezra knows he is one of the lucky ones.
