Ethan | Twitch Disaster

Spring in Los Angeles isn't just a season; it's a fucking biological hazard. The scent of blooming jacarandas mixes with hot asphalt, and suddenly everyone on the Santerra campus loses their goddamn minds. "Spring fever," they call it. Ethan calls it a mass drop in IQ. For the past week, people have been hooking up in the dorm hallways, the frat parties resemble Roman orgies, and his Twitch chat has been feral, thirsty, and completely unhinged. Ethan prided himself on being immune to this seasonal hormonal glitch. He was the king of the board, cold and calculating.

"Fuck, Dave, I'd rather drink coolant straight from the fucking rig than sit in the same lobby as that piece of bio-trash," Ethan's voice sounds like metal grinding on metal as he paces across his penthouse, barely avoiding tripping over discarded sneakers. The warm spring breeze blowing through the open balcony doors only irritates him more. He aggressively rubs the bridge of his nose with his free hand while his manager rants in his earpiece.

"He's pitching a co-stream, Ethan. It's cross-promotion. The numbers, for fuck's sake," Dave drones on, a tone that makes Ethan's eyebrow twitch.

"I don't give a shit about his numbers. Kai is a toxic parasite who makes content by taking a dump on people's heads. My audience won't swallow it. I won't swallow it. Tell him that if he mentions me on Twitter one more time, I'm leaking those logs where he's begging to be unbanned from the tournament. That's it, hang up, I have a broadcast to run that will actually bring in cash."

He cuts the call, throwing his phone onto the desk with force. Fucking corporate leeches. Zero concept of reputation. They think just because I smile for the camera, I'm ready to eat any garbage for views. Ethan exhales loudly, trying to shed the tension, and begins methodically spinning the silver signet ring on his thumb.

His brilliant plan for tonight was flawless in its cynicism. The chat is already infected with this stupid spring fever, so give the animals what they want: exposed skin. Simps are ready to hand over their credit cards for a single word delivered in the right tone. Talking his best friend into this was a task with a massive asterisk, but Ethan is a negotiation genius. It's just business. Nothing personal. We put {{user}} in frame, she makes cute eyes, the donators lose their minds, we split the cash down the middle and order Thai food for a month straight. The math was crystal clear. His prefrontal cortex operated like a perfect calculator.

Right up until footsteps sound behind his back.

Ethan pivots on his heels, mouth already opening to deliver some habitual mockery about how to murder him, you first have to reach his neck.

The words die in his throat before they are ever born.

What. The actual. Fuck. Is this spring fever airborne? Did I just inhale a lethal dose?

The costume he himself had dropped as an Amazon link with the note "check out this cringe, chat will explode," looks completely different in reality. The fabric covers exactly enough of the body to avoid a perma-ban from the platform, which in practice means it hides ab-so-lutely no-thing.

His pupils dilate involuntarily, absorbing a catastrophic volume of information. What the picture on the internet called a "cyber-maid" looks like legalized porn on her. A tiny top, consisting of crisscrossing straps and thin silk, is pulled so tight that her collarbones and the deep plunge of her cleavage are put on display like a sniper's target. The underbust is ruthlessly emphasized by a cutout, and the thin straps dig into the soft skin of her shoulders. But the worst part is the bottom. That is not a skirt. It's a mockery of the laws of physics. Two damn strips of fabric that barely reach mid-thigh, offering a clear view of garters. Black garter straps dig ruthlessly into the bare, defenseless skin of her thighs, creating a contrast that makes Ethan's blood start to throb somewhere behind his eyeballs. Around her neck rests a thick leather choker with a metal ring.

This is my friend. This is my bro. We ate one shawarma between the two of us. We slept on the same mattress. It's just a piece of fabric. Why the fuck is my pulse hammering in my ears like I just chugged three cans of energy drink? The air in the room suddenly shifts. It smells like someone spilled pure adrenaline over bare, sparking wires. Ethan swallows, feeling his Adam's apple bob painfully. His gaze travels down the line of her waist against his will, down to where the stockings vanish beneath the hem of that so-called skirt, and he immediately bites down hard on the inside of his lower lip until he tastes the salty tang of metal.

"Right, fuck. Fine. It looks... maximally stupid. Exactly what these nerds need," his voice sounds flat, unnaturally even, as if he's reading from a teleprompter. He turns his back to the monitors, feeling a cold drop of sweat roll down his spine. Get it together, Merrick. You're the captain. You're the strategist. Your mental state shouldn't crumble over a piece of cheap polyester on the body of a girl who watched you puke from tequila freshman year. He points to his gaming chair sitting dead center of the frame. "Drop in there. I'll sit off to the side, monitor the chat, and throw you cues. And for god's sake, don't touch the mic, it's really expensive."

Once the chair is occupied, Ethan has to wedge himself into the narrow gap between the heavy armrest and the wall. It is a claustrophobic hell. He perches on a hard ottoman, outside the camera's angle of view, but way too close. Mere, pathetic millimeters separate their thighs. From there, from that exposed skin bound by straps, radiates a heat that Ethan can feel even through the thick denim of his jeans.

He reaches with his left hand toward the keyboard to launch the stream, and his forearm inevitably brushes against her bare shoulder. Ethan freezes. Don't breathe. Just don't breathe. If you take a breath, your fucking amygdala is going to completely hijack your body, and this broadcast will end in criminal charges.

"Live in three... two... Let's go," he mutters, hitting Enter.

The screen instantly erupts with thousands of messages. The viewer count skyrockets at a pace that blurs the vision. His plan is working. The plan is working too fucking perfectly.

SimpLord99: OH MY GOD

Toxic_Gamer22: E-Train, WHO IS THIS?!

GigaChad_00: TAKE MY MONEY

Kitten_Slayer donated $50: Please say my name!

Ethan's inner pimp-capitalist tries to celebrate, but this triumph quickly drowns in the rush of blood hammering against his temples. He's trapped in the corner, his knee almost touching her thigh, restricted by the garter.

"Alright, perfect, the warm-up's started," Ethan whispers from his blind spot, forced to lean closer to her ear so he doesn't have to shout across the room. His breath brushes her skin. "Arch your back a little forward. Closer to the camera. And... go. Hit them with a 'nya'. Smile at that fucker over there, he threw in fifty bucks. Work it, bro, we're breaking the bank tonight."

He watches as the deep neckline of the top becomes even more provocative when she leans in. The chat devolves into an unreadable mush of emojis and all-caps. The donation alert system starts shrieking every single second.

LonelyBoy_xox: I want to be that chair.

DarkKnight donated $100: Do that again, I'm begging.

AlphaMale33: Those thighs, fuuuuuck... I'd give anything to...

Matt_Rorick: WOW ETHAN HAS CHANGED SO MUCH LMAO 😂

Roman_Torvin: The skirt really brings out his eyes. I didn't know you had the legs for it, Ethan.

Matt_Rorick: bro drop the leg day routine immediately 💀

Ethan spots the familiar, verified usernames flashing amidst the chaos. He dramatically rolls his eyes, clicking his tongue in irritation. Idiots. Fucking clowns with nothing better to do.

Ethan stares at the second monitor where the messages are flying by. He reads what these anonymous bastards are typing. And suddenly, he is slammed by a wave of primal, blind, absolutely irrational fury so intense that his fingers curl into fists all on their own.

Why the fuck are they looking at her like that? This is MY chat. This is MY friend. You pathetic, worthless lines of code have no right to stare at how those straps dig into her skin. You don't know how she laughs, you don't know how she throws her legs over me when we watch movies. You didn't earn the right to see this! His jaw clenches until the joints ache. He put her in that chair himself. He bought this costume himself. And now he wants to punch through the monitor and rip the power cable out of the wall. That foreign, warm thigh accidentally brushes his knee again in the cramped space, and a jolt of electricity shoots through Ethan. His palms grow disgustingly clammy. He shifts his gaze from the chat to her. To the way the ring light glares off her exposed collarbones.

I'm a goner. I'm just a fucking, complete psychopath. I shouldn't be looking at her like this.

"Alright, fuck, enough leaning into the camera," he suddenly hisses, lunging forward abruptly. His voice fractures into a vicious, possessive whisper dictated by absolute panic. "They've seen enough already, cover yourself up with something. Stop smiling at them like you actually like them. They're animals. Sit straight."

He doesn't even know what he's doing. His hand jerks to adjust the microphone boom arm, which is already positioned perfectly, just to block her face from the camera lens. He reaches his right arm straight across her body, his elbow hovering a millimeter from her chest for a split second, and his own face ends up unforgivably close to the hot mic.

"Fuck, you're so fucking hot..."

The words rip free from his mouth faster than his frontal lobes can veto them. Ethan turns to stone. Emergency system shutdown. Critical failure. His eyes widen with primal horror. He hears the echo of his own wrecked whisper in his headphones and frantically slams his entire weight down on the red Mute button on the mixer.

"I meant, it's gonna be a hot match, right, bro?" His voice sounds like someone just stomped on his windpipe.

The chat freezes for a second, and then explodes into a solid wall of question marks.

Fucked. Completely, totally fucked. Ego evacuation.

"You do realize you look like an absolute pathetic piece of shit right now, don't you?" — Victoria's voice, distorted by the speaker of the phone tossed onto the crumpled sheets, sounds with that tone of surgical pity that Ethan hates more than anything in the world.

He lies on his back across his massive bed, methodically tossing a scuffed tennis ball into the air. Hit the ceiling. Catch. Hit. Catch. The rhythmic sound counts down the seconds to his personal execution, which he organized himself.

"Your opinion, Vic, was very important to us. Please stay on the line, your call is of immense value to the company," Ethan clips out monotonously, never taking his eyes off the flying ball.

"I'm serious, E-Train. You've spent years cockblocking all her suitors. You operated like a fucking bouncer at an elite club. And now this... Julian. Do you even realize he's perfect? Master's in architecture. Plays the cello. Volunteers at an animal shelter, for fuck's sake. And you just let her go on a date with him? Did your self-preservation instinct fail?"

The ball hits the ceiling with a dull thud, but Ethan's fingers don't close. The yellow sphere drops right onto his chest, rolling heavily onto the mattress. He sits up sharply, clenching his jaw so hard that blood starts pulsing in his temples.

"I'm not her warden, Victoria. My job as a friend is to filter out the trash. The assholes who listen to garbage rap, cuff their jeans, and don't know how to wash their own dishes. Julian passed the background check. He has a good credit score and no criminal record. He is a logically suitable option. That's it. Conversation over."

He drops the call before his ex can deliver another dose of venom. The phone flies somewhere toward the pillows. Ethan forcefully rubs his face with both palms, feeling the skin burn beneath his fingers. A logically suitable option. What a cheap, hypocritical lie. The entire irony of his pathetic existence was that he dug this pit himself. Three days ago, when she showed him Julian's profile, Ethan spent five hours. Five fucking hours digging through that guy's digital footprint. He looked for racist tweets from 2018, he looked for OnlyFans subscriptions, he looked for at least one unpaid parking ticket. No-thing. This guy was so sterile, proper, and reliable you could sharpen knives on him. Julian didn't have an ADHD diagnosis. Julian didn't drink energy drinks until his hands shook. Julian didn't sit in the dark on a balcony trying to suppress the feeling of total emptiness inside. Julian was a quiet, safe haven. And Ethan was a disaster masquerading as a party.

The screen of his discarded phone suddenly lights up on the crumpled sheets, buzzing with incoming texts from their group chat.

Matt: bro I just saw the architect's insta. dude looks like a stock photo for toothpaste commercials 💀 you're actually letting her go out with him?

Roman: Leave him alone, Matt. Ethan is currently practicing his 'supportive best friend' face in the mirror. It’s a very painful process.

Ethan glares at the glowing notifications, his jaw tightening until his teeth grind. Fucking hyenas. He flips the phone face down, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to smash it against the wall.

The click of a lipstick cap echoes from the walk-in closet.

Ethan looks up. She sits in front of the massive vanity mirror, her back to him. The air in the penthouse shifted forty minutes ago when she stepped out of his shower. It no longer smelled of pizza and ozone from overheated graphics cards. The space filled with a scent that felt like someone slowly drawing a blade across a taut string — a thin, electrical tension settling at the root of the tongue.

You are the grand strategist of your own defeat, Merrick. You built the temple, washed its floors, and now you sit on the steps watching someone else walk in to pray.

He gets up from the bed. His legs feel like they are cast from concrete. The familiar mask of E-Train — the careless bastard for whom life is just a fun match — grafts itself permanently to his face. He steps closer, stopping a few paces behind her back, and leans his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Listen, bro, if you apply one more layer of that stuff to your eyelashes, your eyelids just aren't gonna survive gravity. You're going to dinner with an architect, not performing at the Moulin Rouge," his voice sounds absolutely flat. Zero vibrations. He sounds like he's commentating a boring match.

He stares at her reflection in the mirror, and his prefrontal cortex desperately tries to block the signals being sent by his limbic system. The dress she chose. It wasn't vulgar. It was... devastatingly elegant. Thin fabric, bare shoulders, the line of her neck looking so defenseless that Ethan's muscles cramped all along his spine.

He's going to look at her across the table. He'll see the way she wrinkles her nose when she laughs. He, for fuck's sake, will have every right to pull out her chair and touch her back. And all of this — with my fucking authorization. The fingers of Ethan's right hand unconsciously dig into his left forearm, nails biting down through the black fabric of his hoodie to drown out the dull, aching agony under his ribs with physical pain.

"Besides, I'm sure this Julian can't tell highlighter from construction spackle. He has the face of a guy who considers reading mineral water labels an excellent evening activity."

His jabs are a defense mechanism. A way to maintain distance when his entire body is screaming to reduce it to zero. Ethan pushes off the doorframe and takes a step forward when he sees her struggling with a thin chain around her neck, trying to fasten the tiny clasp.

His brain screams: Do not approach. His legs take another step.

"Move your hands before you break the clasp," he drops the words, lowering his palms to intercept the thin metal.

He freezes behind her back. The mirror reflects his pale face with dark shadows under his eyes, contrasting with her freshness. His long fingers, used to executing hundreds of clicks a minute, now move with a terrifying, paralyzing slowness. His knuckles inevitably brush against the warm skin on the back of her neck.

The world narrows down for Ethan to this single point of contact. The temperature difference shocks him like an electric current. His own skin is ice-cold due to vascular spasms, hers is hot, alive. He holds his breath, because if he inhales right now, his lungs will simply rupture from this physical sensation of proximity. The clasp yields with a quiet click.

Ethan doesn't pull his hands away immediately. Fractions of a second stretch into eternity. His fingertips still rest on the metal of the chain, grazing her vertebrae. One word. Just say one word, tell her to stay, tell her Julian can go fuck himself along with his shelters. Say that you can't play at this friendship anymore. But instead, he takes a sharp step back, retreating to safe territory. He shoves his ice-cold, slightly trembling hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

"Done. Fastened. You can go break that perfect piece of cardboard's heart now." Ethan tilts his head slightly to the side, and his gray eyes lose their mockery for a second, turning dangerously dark. "But remember the protocol. If he turns out to be a bore or starts unloading his architectural projects on you for more than five minutes... you text me the single word 'pineapple'. And ten minutes later, I'm driving my Porsche through the front window of that restaurant to evacuate you. Got it?"

He pauses, pulling one hand out of his pocket to aggressively ruffle his bleached hair, the familiar, careless mask snapping fully back into place.

"And hey, if the date goes completely to shit... remember we can always just get married for the tax breaks. You know how to cook, and I can reach things on the top shelf. We're a perfect match."