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Mark leaves.
Not for good - not permanently. Probably. Hopefully? But it doesn't matter whether it's temporary or permanent, does it? It's too much for Sam. Not just the distance, but the decision. He throws that in her face when he's had too much to drink, hurling words like a bottle in a bar fight and kind of wishing he could get in a physical fight for once, with someone.
He asks her - is it really just that he's decided to go away? Or is it just that he's made any decision at all, and that she can't choose for him? She can't stop him from making a decision, lingering in the safety of inaction as if that isn't a decision in itself.
He apologizes in the morning. Sam is still shell-shocked, her emotions on mute because she's afraid they'll run wild otherwise, and she can handle her own panic attacks (she can't) and she can handle his (she can't) but what she's afraid of is whether or not he can. (He can't.)
Maybe that's why she doesn't come with.
No, Mark knows better. He tells himself he knows better. She could weave herself anxious out of anything, and sometimes it's him, but plenty of times it isn't. It's her parents and her home and all the things she would be leaving behind. Maybe if his parents weren't awful he would be able to relate more, would be willing to stay for her ghosts. But they're ghosts he doesn't even know, except through sometimes-stories and never-photos, and he's got his own trauma to shoulder, thanks.
He just can't do it anymore, and God, how fucked up is it to run away from your own girlfriend? How messed up is it to move to another city because it's the only way to force yourself to break up with her? He loves her too much for anything less and knows that he'd circle back to her like a man pulled by gravity. He doesn't want to be that cruel to someone who doesn't deserve it.
So Mark leaves.
He gets a crappy job and a crappy apartment, and - it sucks. The pay from a little art supply store is barely enough to get by on and his coworkers aren't nearly sassy enough for his tastes. And when they are, it isn't even in a fun way. The work is monotonous, which makes it easy, but gives him too much time to think. He used to enjoy being left to his own mind, but a lot of things you like can turn terrible when you don't have any say in them. It's the difference between swimming and drowning.
But despite it all, he likes his apartment. He likes to have his own space, and the emptiness doesn't bother him. Instead of buying more furniture or decorating, he strings photos all across his walls.
It looks vaguely like a crazy person lives there, but that's fine.
There's nothing to trip over when he drinks, and plenty to look at.
Photos of tall buildings catching sunlight. Verdant plains from public parks. New photos that he takes relentlessly, snapping them with his phone, with his nice camera, and with disposables that he buys each time he sees them. Mark misses polaroids, and thinks of Sam laughing and asking him are you still in the past? Then of how she would apologize, burying her face in her hands over an imaginary landmine.
The picture of Sam, with her back to him in her house, straightening a painting on the wall – that one stays in a box in his closet.
But the rest hang in a row. Frank on campus with a tentative smile. Chloe and Caleb and Adam, all bunched up together in the backseat of a car. (Adam is half on Caleb's lap, though he really didn't need to be.) A dozen pictures of Joanie. She had frowned at him and told him no, insisting that she 'isn't photogenic, isn't wearing makeup, hasn't curled her hair.' But she had still let him take the photo, and thanks to burst mode, he has a whole sequence of the way she had bowed her head, sighed, and looked back up into the camera with a resigned smile.
Against his better judgment, he even hangs up photos from the tours he tags along with, for no-name bands who can only afford a no-name photographer. Stray cats and empty rest stops. The moon in the sky and gas station convenience stores glowing neon in the night. Those ones never come out right. They needed a longer exposure but Mark usually isn't trying to take anything good and doesn't bother fiddling with his camera settings.
At a glance, these photos look to him like they could be from a different road trip.
These are the photos that belong hidden away in a box and - God, that's the whole problem. He keeps them when he knows that he shouldn't. It's not just the photos; the band tours themselves do the same thing to him. They're fun, they are, but they ignite an ache in him that he can't ever quell.
("It won't go away," Joanie told him. "I can't promise you that it will. But it's best to learn to let the thoughts flow. Rejecting them will only make it worse, accepting them will allow you to let go of them and move on. You know, you should talk to someone. If you need to let it out, I can refer--")
--Maybe he should see a therapist. A real therapist, a proper therapist, a normal therapist.
But there's no way to explain any of this to a normal therapist.
Adam calls him more often than Caleb, which is strange at first, but he kind of gets it. They talk about college and art, and Adam always has movie suggestions for Mark's to-watch list. Chloe calls once a month, upholding one-sided conversations so easily that he'd almost believe she can read his mind over the phone. Joanie calls him once a week. It's a bit much, and sometimes he hates that over-protectiveness, but there are also times when her call comes a day late and he finds himself missing it.
Sam tries calling a couple times. It's awkward and uncomfortable. They are on good terms, in theory, but it's still such a raw and delicate thing. There is nothing either of them can say that will make it better for the other, but each is waiting on their toes to hear the right thing to close open wounds.
Mark stops answering. Sam stops calling.
And then: Damien calls.
Mark answers without knowing - he's an idiot who still picks up every telemarketer, no matter how many calls a day he gets. Unknown numbers could be anyone. A friend in danger.
Or a threat.
It's two in the afternoon and Damien drawls, "Haven't changed your number, huh?"
His voice is syrup. Thick and deep, it drips like it's filling the whole room. Mark swallows, keeps breathing, and forces his tense shoulders to relax. "Damien."
He glances at his clock, at the lit up date in the corner, and he thinks of course. It's Damien's birthday. Like he didn't already know that.
There is an awkward silence. Maybe Damien isn't rambling drunk yet, thank God.
Mark asks, "What do you want? Me to wish you a happy birthday?"
There is a catch of breath. Quiet, but Mark hears it. A startled intake, before Damien asks, like he is suspicious, "You remember that?"
Two short sentences, and Mark already wants to throw his hands in the air. Zero to a hundred. He is angry and tired, because God, Damien is exhausting. He shouldn't even answer him, he should hang up and turn off his phone and enjoy his day off.
"Yeah," Mark says. "I remember."
Damien laughs. It doesn't sound pleased. He always laughs like he's disgusted at something, and Mark can only hope it's at himself.
Behind closed eyelids, the empty of his apartment fills with cheap motel furniture. His mind conjures up the smell of mildew and the sound of traffic from outside. For a brief moment of imagination, Damien sleeps beside him, the lines of his body relaxed for once. His clothes, Mark remembers thinking, had looked so uncomfortable to sleep in. Hoodies and t-shirts and jeans and - even his belt still on.
He remembers a fascination with the pull of those jeans over hip-bones. His body hadn't been anything special - not seductively tall or understatedly fit. Just a body that Mark had known would be warm to the touch. (Damien wanted Mark to like him - that's all. That's all.)
He opens his eyes to the sunlight and his hollow box of an apartment, and the dull hum of white-noise over the line.
"So? What do you want? Are you drunk? I don't need an annual reminder that you don't understand that what you did was wrong. Not anymore."
"Haven't been drinking," Damien answers, like he is avoiding the other question. Then amends, "Today."
Relatable, Mark thinks, but swallows it back.
"I know you're lonely or whatever," Mark says, and his voice sounds flat even to himself. "But you get that it's your own fault, right? You get that you deserve to be as miserable as you are? You burned all your own bridges, and you can keep kicking up the ashes all you want, but it's not going to fix it."
Mark daydreams a lot about tearing into Damien, like this. More than he should. He daydreams of saying just the right thing to make Damien actually understand. (Then what? Mark wants to know. If he could make Damien actually understand, actually feel the guilt he should, then what? His fantasies always stop when he gets overwhelmed just trying to articulate that One Perfect Speech to get through to him.)
It's a waste of time. Damien doesn't understand, and so the satisfaction of those dreams is sucked right out of it. Reality is cold and dry, and Damien lets out a quiet grunt like he's been jabbed with something sharp.
Damien just thinks Mark needs time. Joke's on him, Mark would like to say. Repressed Trauma Boy doesn't let go of shit.
Key words being: would like to say.
Time does not heal all wounds, but time heals some wounds, some of the way and distance sure as fuck helped, too. Damien is still a shitty person and Damien still did shitty things. Mark is still traumatized, he knows he is. Suspicious and distrusting of everyone - jumpy and on edge. Stacked on top of the rest of his trauma, it's still a hell of a doozy.
Rather than being healed, it would be more accurate to say: Mark has bigger things to worry about. And: Mark has enjoyed Damien being gone, because it has let him worry about those bigger things.
He is afraid that if Damien were still around, Damien would be all he thought of. That was supposed to stop when Damien lost his powers, and it didn't, and that's – well. Something Mark knows he shouldn't lean in to.
The line has been quiet for too long. It isn't satisfying to bully someone who just takes it, even if that's what they deserve.
Finally, Damien says, "Never mind. Forget I called."
"Done," Mark says, and hangs up first.
But Repressed Trauma Boy doesn't let go of shit.
***
It's been over a year. There's no fucking way it's still Damien's power, no way that there's any trace of like me, like me, like me, that's still lingering under Mark's skin. No matter how desperately it had been pushed there, it has to be gone by now.
But tastes are a thing that can be permanently changed. Patterns and habits are things that linger. Mark hates not being able to trust himself. He thinks of Damien's parents, driving away and never coming back. So why the fuck, when Damien no longer has power over him, does he? Non-beginner-psych answers only! If leaving Sam was breaking from gravity, all he's done is flung himself back into an even stronger gravitational pull.
He stares at Damien's number in his phone. It is not saved under a name, and now it is couched between a billion telemarketers and calls from his coworkers begging him to cover. But he knows the date. He knows the time, the hour, the minute.
By the time he deletes it from his call log, he knows the number.
He hates that this was not an accident.
Then what? Mark allows himself to think, only when he is sprawled across his sofa with another drink in his hand. Drift into a daydream and let yourself want something for once, he tells himself. The daydream goes like this: Say the right thing until Damien says the right thing. Damien feels guilty. Damien apologizes, and puts in the effort to be better.
It's nonsense. His mind can't imagine it, no matter how self-indulgent the alcohol tells him to get. Everything he thinks up is not a fantasy, but a qualifier, as if his real dream is being given permission to admit what he wants, to be finished asking if it's okay. He keeps asking himself, then what?
Then what?
Mark sets his empty glass on the floor and curls into himself. He breathes in deep the smell of his old home that has slowly been seeping out of his clothes, and he feels his own body heat in the evening chill.
He calls Sam, and is relieved when she doesn't answer.
***
"Hey."
Damien's voice is low and gravelly, today. It drags through Mark's mind, crumbling into all the cracks and crevices.
This was a bad idea. He doesn't even have an excuse yet - he isn't even drunk. He needs to answer. He needs to reply to Damien.
Static fills the long pause, until Damien finally asks, softer, "Mark?" He sounds worried, Mark realizes with a start.
"Yeah. Hey."
Another silence, giving Mark plenty of time to ruminate on how terrible an idea this was. He feels like he's possessed. This time when Damien speaks up again, his voice is accusatory. "You called me."
"Yeah."
Softer again. "Why?"
Damien's moods fluctuate fast. He switches from pleading to rage with every other word out of his mouth. He's impossible. He always will be.
"I don't know," Mark snaps, and has to flex his free hand to get some of the tension out. He does know, really, but he doesn't like the answer.
He wants to talk to Damien. He wants one thing to lead to another, and he wants to see Damien. (One thing leads to another, he concedes. But even his own self-indulgent imagination only offers: Then what?)
"Okay," Damien says, and his voice has stayed calm - the kind of calm that Mark doesn't know what to do with. The broken calm, the accepting calm. The doing what you want me to do calm that Mark hasn't heard since he stole his powers.
"Talk," Mark says, not wanting another long silence.
Damien scoffs, impatient after his extended moment of kindness. "About what?"
"Anything. I know you're not going to say the right thing. Probably I'll hate whatever you say. But - just talk."
That should be enough to set Damien off, but after a moment's hesitation, he obeys. Awkward, at first. Stilted and annoyed. But calm.
Mark lays on his couch in the dark, still wearing his work uniform and trying to let the exhaustion of a long day seep out of him. He imagines it wafting from his body, pouring out the open window. He imagines it being rubbed out of him, like being exfoliated by something satisfyingly rough.
Damien tells him about his new life. It's a familiar story. Same city. Crappy job, crappy apartment. A coworker who invites him out sometimes, and the fact that he always says no. A therapist he only thinks he is walking circles around, but who Mark is sure has him figured out. It's incredible the ways a man can be so transparent, even when he is telling a lie he believes in.
He talks briefly about not having his powers anymore, and the hollow feeling of their absence. The way other people exist behind an insurmountable wall, but being 'normal,' whatever that means, is just as blocked off.
He talks about how he would expect Mark to hate this, after everything. Just listening to someone without giving input, like a ghost.
It reminds him of the road trip. Of the spaces between being interrogated, when Damien would just... Talk to him. When Mark had thought, Damien has a nice voice, and had to sit with knowing that the thought was his own because Damien wanted to be liked, but he never got that specific about it. In those moments, Damien hadn't wanted anything but for them to stay together. Nothing else. Nothing more.
At some point, Mark is distantly aware that he is dozing off, but he does not fight it.
Eventually he is prying his heavy eyelids open in a much darker room. Outside the window, the sky is shifting like a gradient from light to dark blue. Whatever vibrant sunset had burned while he slept has long since been washed out and dulled.
His phone is hot on his chest, his fingers still resting over it.
Damien isn't talking anymore, but there is still the static white noise of an ongoing call on speaker phone. Awareness comes to him slowly as he fully wakes, and Mark can hear the sound of clothes shifting every so often - occasionally a breath just slightly too close to the microphone.
Mark lets his eyes flutter shut again and exhales.
He lets himself stay like this, relaxed and comfortable, his head as quiet and soothingly empty as the room around him.
God, he's stupid.
He opens his eyes, stares up at the ceiling, and asks, "Do you want to get coffee?"
He would think maybe Damien hadn't heard him at all, if not for the slightest stutter in his breath. But then Damien doesn't reply, and the silence stretches on until it is pulled tight and restricting.
The comfort was from the nap, Mark tells himself. Of course it was, because this is how things are with Damien. Even when he's good, it's uncomfortable. Even when he's good, the moment will snap into tension.
Mark half expects him to just hang up, the silence goes so long.
Damien murmurs, "You don't want that."
"You're learning," Mark observes, instead of arguing. And he knows that he's a fuck up, but he's not the fuck up - not between the two of them. But it is fucked up to dangle the question like a trap, then mock Damien when he doesn't fall for it.
Even when he's good, the moment is still tainted. It always will be.
"I want to," Damien says, at length.
Mark completes the thought: "But you know better."
Damien's silence is more argument than it is confirmation, as if this observation offends him. It probably does. He clings bitter to his ego, nails dug in deep and teeth gnashing to defend his misshapen ideals. To admit that he is acting on anything else is to admit that he was wrong, and Mark is sure that's a concession that hurts him to his core.
Then again, maybe he still doesn't know it. It isn't hard to fake it. Say the right thing, do the right thing. Read from the script until you're forgiven, until everyone is cooing over how much you've grown. (Mark knows better. No one would accept Damien, even if he did change.)
Mark is too tired to dig into the existential questions about whether your internal monologue has the power to matter in the face of your outward actions. He only knows this: Damien doesn't know better.
He realizes that it's colossally fucked up that it makes him miss Chloe when, after such a long silence, Damien says what he's thinking.
"I don't," Damien says. It's less an argument and more an idle thought. "If I knew better, I wouldn't answer your call."
The reminder that he is the one calling makes Mark sick to his stomach.
"Yeah, well," Mark mutters without thinking, "everyone has their vices."
There is a quiet sound of surprise from the back of Damien's throat, some bitten back thing. If Damien were anyone else, it might feel worse to say out loud that this is what they are to one another. Vices. Addictions, temptations. Very, very bad choices.
"There's a café on 11th," Mark says, and swallows thickly. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
Damien makes the sound again, that fascinating little startled choke, then furiously blurts out, "That's across town for m—"
Mark hangs up on him.
He lays on the couch in his dark living room and considers not even going. He weighs the odds of going, getting something warm to drink, and being gone before Damien even has time to get there.
That seems likely, and the idea amuses him so much that he goes.
***
It's probably stupid to drink coffee so late at night, but Mark has the weekend off and he already took that nap, so he was going to be up all night anyway. He's already fucked up, he figures, so he may as well lean into the caffeine addiction. It's not his worst.
The cool evening is refreshing after a warm day, and the sidewalk is abnormally busy with the early-summer excitement. He discreetly snaps a few candid photos on his phone of distant figures laughing, hop-stepping closer to each other. A high school girl stealing her boyfriend's hoodie with a grin, and a pair of women in smart looking suits with interwoven fingers, pausing to admire the early moon. A group of friends at the outdoor seating of a noisy bar, leaning far across the table to play-slap at each other.
It puts his nerves at ease to see people just living their lives. The idea of Damien getting there too late has an equally soothing effect on him. He could bask in the knowledge that he didn't lie. It's vindictive, but the cool air helps him to allow it for now.
He is in constant fluctuation with himself over the way he wants to play with Damien. Sometimes he thinks it's his right to do it, after everything. That Damien deserves it, deserves to be kicked while he's down. That Damien doesn't deserve an ounce of anyone else's remorse until he develops some of his own.
Other times he understands, of course he understands, that Damien is a product of his environment. That's what Joanie says, right? Hurt people hurt people, and Damien has a whole lot of baggage of his own.
Not that it justifies the way he hoists it onto other people, but still. Contributing to dysfunction is hardly the road to enlightenment.
Mark doesn't feel antsy as he waits through the short line. He doesn't mind waiting for his order. Minutes later, he steps outside with a warm cup held between both his hands. He moves past the wide window and takes a moment to lean against the wall, looking up and counting the still-emerging stars.
The fresh air of night always makes him feel healthier than he is. Maybe it's being out of the house for once. Maybe it's just the refreshing cold in his lungs. He sips at his coffee and thinks that the world is tragic and romantic and beautiful, and that deep down, he is definitely a very pretentious man.
Naturally, the nirvana shatters into powdered glass when he tilts his head and sees Damien.
Damien doesn't see him yet, and Mark considers pulling up his hood, turning around, and leaving before he's spotted. Instead he forces himself to take another robotic sip of his drink.
He'd like to say that Damien looks like shit. That he has bags under his eyes - he does - and a weary set to his shoulders - he does - and that he needs a haircut - which he does. Whatever remnants of Mark's rose-stained memory there may have been are washed away in one fell swoop; the charm, the reverse of it, the filtered lenses Damien had made Mark look at him through are done and gone in an instant. Whatever image he'd had in his head is replaced with reality, perfections overwritten by imperfection.
He looks tired and annoyed. His dark hair is mussed and over-grown, falling and curling slightly towards his cheekbones. He's lost weight. His black hoodie looks worn thin and has holes in the sleeves. He doesn't have that magnetic allure like he used to, he just looks – human.
Damien is too distracted to see him. Mark likes the idea of this. Damien is just a person. Mark is just a person. The idea that they could pass each other on the street without Damien noticing, without the world imploding, is reassuring. (But Mark would notice if Damien passed by, wouldn't he? What else is he always so hyper-vigilant for?)
Damien looks sidelong through the window, into the coffee shop, scanning the customers inside.
Mark watches the way he pauses. The way his gaze darts away from the window, down to his fingers that pluck at the hem of his shirt. He can't even be certain that Mark isn't inside; not from such a quick once-over.
But Damien's shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. He turns around.
He's actually going to leave, Mark realizes.
It isn't easy to sound casual, but he tries. "Hey, stupid."
Damien's shoulders jump; he turns back, dark eyes finally landing on where Mark has been watching him. "Hey," Damien greets him back, apparently too far out of his element to even be angry at being called stupid.
Damien doesn't even get a drink. No wonder. It's nearly eleven already. Instead he just follows Mark's lead, and they walk beneath the streetlights, side by side.
They are quiet. Mark knows that Damien is watching him from the corner of his eye but he refuses to catch him in the act, refuses to acknowledge it. Refuses to look back because that temptation is over, isn't it? The allure is gone. It has to be.
Mark knows that the silence is damning for the both of them. Why did they come here, if not to talk? (Now what?)
The headlights of passing cars paint the sidewalk gold. Overhead, the stars are finally spread bright. The other people thin out until they are gone, and Mark eventually tosses his empty cup in a public garbage bin.
They've been walking aimlessly, because Mark does not want to let his feet lead him home.
"I don't—" Damien finally begins, but quickly interrupts himself with an irritated growl. "I don't know what to do, here."
"Shutting up was a good step. You should stick with that."
Damien rolls his eyes and seems to retort on reflex alone. "What, so you just wanted to ogle me?"
It would be too easy to elbow him and laugh. Mark is already hyper conscious of the closeness of their arms. He exhales. "Try again."
When he steals a glance, Damien has finally torn his gaze away. Maybe it wasn't even hard for him. His head is tilted back to watch the sky, expression flat and unbothered.
His emotions aren't like Sam's can be - muted and hidden in a protective box with a lock clicked shut by nerves. Sam's emotions are always barely repressed, vibrating and ready to overflow. Instead it's as if Damien's are held in his hands, then set aside. Something found in spring cleaning that has no real place of its own, set aside but still in the way. Moved again, again, again, but never really out of sight.
Sam hides her emotions because they are valuable to her. Damien tries to set his aside because they are not.
"You don't just need time," Damien grumbles, like he is still loathe to admit it. "But there's no - there's nothing I can do. Anything I do is just performative."
At least he's self aware. Maybe because he can't force his therapist to play into his mind games instead of solving them, this time. Still, Mark isn't blind to the circular logic. It means that even this is performative.
"Yep," Mark says flatly. "Sometimes the things you break stay broken. That's how consequences work."
Damien opens his mouth like he has a retort, then closes it again, brow furrowing.
Mark demands, impatient, "What?"
"Nothing," Damien says, turning his head now to inspect the residential fences that have slowly replaced the shop windows.
Mark sighs. "What?"
There's some awful thrill in the way Damien concedes. It hits Mark as sharp and fast as lightning, a bolt of satisfaction at the subtle bow of Damien's head. Mark doesn't want to think about that too deeply.
Damien still sounds annoyed by his own thoughts. "People aren't broken. You can hurt them, but not break them. No one's broken."
Mark's heart wants to defend its right to the label of Victim, but he shakes off the impulse. It comes holding hands with the need to point fingers. Of course the person who goes around hurting people would want to say that people can't be broken. (Label: Villain.)
"Can't use that as an excuse, though," Damien adds, like an afterthought.
Mark swallows back indignation. It hits too close to home, and God, he doesn't want a lecture from Damien of all people.
"Not - not you, I mean." Damien blurts out, suddenly. Mark watches him, vaguely mystified by the admission. Damien pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as if trying to figure out the words to admit that he was talking about himself.
He seems to settle on leaving it at that. Mark watches his lip slip from his teeth as Damien turns to look at him. He wills himself to be a blank slate, impossible to find anything on. Damien doesn't stop. He just keeps watching Mark, searching, and their footsteps stall as he implores for an answer to a question he doesn't know how to ask.
This is what you wanted, Mark reminds himself with bitterness. "Come on," he mutters, as if he could be quiet enough that the words wouldn't count.
He turns towards his apartment, and Damien follows.
***
It occurs to him that maybe he should be ashamed of the pathetic empty box of photos he calls a home, but he doesn't have the energy. Just being near Damien, just walking in silence, feels like a drain on his reserves.
At least he knows better than to drink.
He's not sure why he thinks that's worth any points when they end up in his bed anyway, hardly ten minutes in the door.
Mark holds his weight up over Damien with one arm and looks down at him in the dark. His vision has adjusted to the night, and he watches the way Damien turns his head away like he can't stand to look up at him. His eyes are clenched shut for good measure, and he has one hand hovering just over Mark's hip, not daring to touch him - despite his other hand balled tight around the hem of Mark's shirt.
Mark's free hand holds onto Damien's side with a firm grip, slipped under his shirt and reveling in the soft warmth of another's skin. It hasn't been that long, but it had been so long - even now, touch is something Mark relishes deeply.
He's already kissed Damien's lips swollen, and this is equally as satisfying as how uncomfortable the other man's expression is.
"Hey," Mark prompts, and the gentleness of his own voice feels like a lie.
Damien turns his head obediently, messy hair pooling on the pillow around him. His fingers still twitch against his shirt when Mark bows down to kiss him again. It's a slow, guiding kiss. Damien is an awful kisser. He wants to pull away too quickly each time. Mark would think he didn't want it, if not for the way he leans forward for another, right after, chasing after Mark's mouth like he hadn't drawn back first. So Mark has to take the lead, pressing up to him, gentle but insistent. Denying him the space to pull back. Making him lean back into the pillow; tilting his head and parting his lips instructively.
Mark runs his tongue over Damien's bottom lip, enjoying the sensation of it. It's soft and warm in a way that had almost startled him; as if Damien's body, by virtue of being Damien's, would be functionally different from other people's. He's glad Damien can't hear that; Damien's already got enough of a complex over what it means to be special.
Mark turns his wrist; slips his fingers just beneath the hem of Damien's jeans. He's startled by the sharp intake of breath, and draws back from the other man's mouth with raised eyebrows. It's an overreaction to such a light touch.
"Virgin."
Damien's head whips to the side again. "You already fucking knew that."
"Yeah, well," Mark says, but isn't going anywhere with the thought. When Damien doesn't turn back, Mark leans in to kiss his jawline.
Damien's voice actually wavers; Mark feels the movement of his jaw as he says, "I didn't plan for - this isn't why I…"
Of course, Mark thinks. Of course he didn't expect anything like this. From the outside, he's not sure anyone would believe it, but Mark knows Damien better than that. Damien's default setting is desperate - he just doesn't understand himself well enough to realize what he's trying to ask for. And it isn't what the sultry voice makes people think, either, so no one is guessing right.
Mark may be unhealthily sadistic when it comes to Damien, but he does know where to draw the line.
"It's not like you have to," Mark says.
Damien's jaw is tight and his lips a thin line as he glares at the wall. "I know."
"You want to," Mark clarifies. He likes to imagine that there's power in saying it. A clarity on who wants what that had always been muddled, before.
Damien refuses to answer for a long stretch, as if somehow what he blurts out after is less embarrassing. "Look, I've just never - you know?"
He had never slept with anyone, because he could never trust that it wasn't just his own desire being mirrored back at him. It's a low bar for common decency, but Mark will take it. He can sympathize with how depressing that is, even.
Mark doesn't mind pitying Damien. Pity carries enough negative connotations for its compassion not to bother him.
"Even now? Without your powers?"
"Not exactly a people person."
"Then I'm special?"
Damien concedes to looking at him again, frowning. His eyes scan Mark's face, as if he cannot discern if it was a scathing snipe or just a playful, albeit sarcastic quip. It was both, Mark thinks, and it's all too apparent that the answer to his question is yes no matter how he meant it. Too bad being special to Damien isn't flattering.
Not when Mark knows that the only thing that made him special in Damien's eyes was his ability. He had just imprinted on Mark and never worked himself out of it.
"Why? You don't even have your power anymore. You don't need me," Mark points out, incredulously arguing against the answer - even though Damien had not even verbalized it. But it was clear as day on his face, and there is no good reason for Damien to still want him, to still think he's special. To still look at him like he set the stars in the sky himself.
Even Damien seems mystified by the outburst. For the first time, he touches Mark first, his hovering hand tentatively coming to rest on his hip.
Then, counter to his own touch, Damien mutters, "I should go."
But he doesn't move.
"If you want," Mark says.
He waits for a cursory moment of stillness. Damien doesn't budge. The seconds tick by in silence for so long that eventually Mark leans down to kiss him again.
He tries to shut off the words in his head. All the crossfire arguments. He focuses on Damien's eyes fluttering shut, on the way tension leaves the other man's face. How he eases into the kiss with more practice now, tilting his head and letting it take him over.
Mark focuses on a warm mouth, and on the slowly loosening grip on his shirt. His insides feel pleasantly melty; his body feels light. He kisses Damien, and kisses Damien, until the other man's hand finally lets go of his shirt. Tentative, Damien's fingers ghost along the hem of Mark's jeans and thumb over the button.
God, Mark thinks. It isn't even going to be good. Not with Damien never having touched another person before, never having been touched before. Most people get that shameful first-time out of the way in high school.
At least kissing is nice. Damien knows better than to pull away from the kiss too early now, and exhales into his mouth at the lightest touch, at the slightest suggestion.
Mark draws back from Damien, leaning back on his knees as he unbuttons Damien's pants. When he tries to tug them down, Damien doesn't lift his hips to help. Mark's eyes flick up to him.
"Shouldn't, ah," Damien begins, and even in the dark Mark can see how flushed his cheeks are. "Shouldn't this be the other way around?"
Why, Mark wants to ask.
He doesn't, but Damien still answers, "I'm the one that owes you."
He can't decide if he is more amused by the avoidant phrasing or horrified at the small shiver up his spine. Damien sees them on such a tipped scale. All the power slides Mark's way, unrestrained. No, Mark tells himself. No, that's nothing that should make you happy. There's no iteration of a dynamic built from guilt and debt that won't feel terrible.
The control feels too nice to give away. Mark can't be bothered to articulate a proper response and gives another pointed tug at Damien's pants, until the other man arches enough to tug them down.
It isn't fair that Mark will never know if Damien is really attractive or not. That he'll always wonder if it's just the residual of his power. A first impression that his mind will keep believing. He can tell his perception isn't being altered right now, but that doesn't mean that it wasn't permanently skewed before. Attraction is subjective, and subjective things can be influenced and changed over time. Even a dead ability can cast shadow.
But he likes the way Damien's abdomen shudders with his breath. He likes his red cheeks and his messy, too-long hair on his pillow; not like he's never seen a barber, but like he's just a little too-long between visits. He likes his half-lidded eyes that drift down to look at him before darting away again quickly.
He likes the look of Damien's cock standing up, dripping. The way it feels, hard against his palm. The gasp from the other man at the touch. The way his whole body shivers when Mark circles his fingers around his length.
The way he strokes Damien is not to get him off, at first. It's experimental. It's like - playing. Amusing himself with small movements to get a feel for what Damien likes, for what makes him twitch and choke on his own breath. Mark's thumb, slicked with precome, presses beneath the head of his cock, and Damien exhales so shakily that Mark almost wonders if he even touches himself.
Mark jerks him off slowly, hand gliding against his length and dragging out ragged breaths from him. There's something subdued about them. He's tense. It's as if he doesn't know how to react, and so he is biting back any reaction at all.
Mark supposes that makes sense. It's his first time. Mark wonders if he's afraid of what's happening or afraid of what might come next. He's willing to place a bet.
"I'm not going to fuck you," Mark tells him.
He doesn't know how he's not going to; his whole body feels on fire just beneath his skin; he realizes his own breathing is unsteady, too. He is painfully hard. It doesn't matter if Damien's power wore off. It doesn't matter if this attraction is just a remnant of it. It's just here, and it isn't going anywhere.
There would be more power in resisting it completely, but Damien has him kicking his own bar of self-expectations lower and lower for each impulse he doesn't fight. At this point, squeezing Damien's cock and hearing his shuddering gasps, he's giving himself points for making a promise with that much restraint.
Damien doesn't respond with words. But his face is flushed even deeper than before at the subject even being broached. His body relaxes, just slightly, and his eyes – God, his eyes. They've gone hazy, looking at Mark like he's completely lost, like...
Like when his powers had backfired.
Oh, that's something. The memory of it is tantalizing. Nauseating, if Mark thinks about it too deeply, and so he doesn't. He distracts himself by bending down to suck the shaft of Damien's cock. He lets his spit slick up his hand as it fists over Damien's length. It's about attention to detail, Mark thinks, admiring Damien's choked breath, bringing his hand to the tip to swirl his thumb over the head.
If he really had Damien's ability now--
--Damien's hand is brushing against his jaw. Mark startles for a split second, but doesn't stop what he's doing. There is a vague amusement that Damien hadn't put his hand in Mark's hair, like he can't even get that right. But it would be a lie to say Mark doesn't shiver, doesn't throb against his jeans at the feather-light trace of knuckles on his face. Damien's hand dusts over his jawline, then his cheek. His fingers twitch at a particular press of Mark's thumb, and Mark wonders what it would take to get them in his hair.
"Mark," Damien breathes, a warning with no urgency, a soft and fluttering thing. Mark tilts his head against his knuckles, squeezes him harder, and feels the pulse of hot come spilling over his fingers.
He softens his grip, stroking Damien through the orgasm, only pulling away from him when it's over. Damien's chest heaves. His eyes are still glassy.
The air feels cold against Mark's burning skin. He wipes his hand against his blankets, because fuck it, then leans back over Damien to kiss him again while he is pliant. He seems so relaxed that even the returned kisses feel lagged and dreamlike. The difference is stark, between this and how tense he had been before Mark's promise. His whole body had been brittle, but he hadn't said a word of protest. He had kept his mouth shut.
If Mark had wanted to fuck him, Damien would have let him.
"I could fuck you," Mark murmurs, lips lingering on Damien's before he draws back to look down his nose at him. "You want it, don't you?"
Damien doesn't respond for a beat of dazed confusion, his brow furrowing almost as if he doesn't understand the question at all. Then he nods.
"Do you?" Mark presses. "Or do you just want whatever I want?"
Damien doesn't look away from him for a second, eyes clouded dark, and swallows thickly before saying, "Yeah."
Mark leans back, and Damien follows like they're attached by an invisible thread. He pulls himself upright. Neither of them say anything; neither of them have to. Damien moves, clumsily unbuttoning Mark's jeans for him and sliding them down with a shiver that Mark can't place. Nervousness or eagerness. It doesn't matter.
He mouths at Mark's cock, at first, the same way Mark had done to him. Learning through observation, Mark supposes. Damien's lips press against the shaft, uncertain kisses and breath so hot that it makes Mark twitch with how sensitive he is. He's worked up, thinking too much about the feedback loop, about the control he'd once had over Damien, like the unlimited potential of revenge. About how he has it again, but it isn't an ability, it isn't some supernatural bullshit, it's just – Damien wants him.
Damien is fucked up, and Damien fucked him up, and now Damien wants him enough to do whatever he says. To let Mark fuck him up, this time, if he wants to.
Mark runs his hand through Damien's hair and feels the other man shudder at the touch. He slides his hand to the back of Damien's head, where he curls his fingers and gives a light pull of guidance. Damien follows the command, rising, mouthing higher up Mark's cock. Mark stops pulling him at the tip, and obediently, Damien's tongue wets the head of Mark's cock before he takes it in his mouth.
The sudden heat is fireworks, or shooting stars, or something else absurdly trite and pretentious. The bright flash of a camera, if Mark has to choose a metaphor he actually likes, because God knows he's going to think about this image for a long, long time.
He's clumsy, like Mark had expected. But he avoids teeth, and that's most of all there is to it. The rest... Well, Mark still has a grip in his hair. Mark guides him. Mark makes sure he teases the tip, working him up before a gentle push to make Damien take him deeper. Another tug to bring him back up when he can feel that Damien can't handle it anymore. It's almost like masturbation, for how dedicated Damien is to his guidance.
"Good boy," Mark says, mostly to be condescending.
Damien gives him a look, somewhat judgmental, but the effect is lessened when he still has Mark's dick in his mouth. Mark still frowns. They have an unspoken agreement, here, about who is in charge right now. He gives Damien's hair a tug. He means it to be a punishment, but Damien's eyes go hazy again, gaze dropping, and all he does is suck harder like his enthusiasm has been renewed.
It shoots a shiver up Mark's spine, makes his cock twitch so hard that he feels Damien recoil slightly. Mark can't even respond to that before Damien is taking him deep again, head bobbing on his own now, and his tongue pressed flat under the head of his cock.
"Not into the pet names, huh?" Mark asks, feeling out of his mind for being amused. "But you like having your hair pulled."
Damien hums, which Mark can't discern as a yes or a no, but the vibration brings him closer to the edge. His skin is still burning up; he can feel that Damien's is too, on the back of his neck. Mark's fingers wander, gently feeling out the side of Damien's throat as it constricts.
He's close - he can feel his orgasm blurring the edges of the world. His eyes clench shut, but only for a moment because it seems like such a colossal waste to have Damien here, sucking his cock so nicely, and to not watch him. The sight is mesmerizing, no matter how unpracticed he is, no matter how shaky his motions get or how much of Mark's guidance he's falling back on. It's Damien. It's Damien.
"You know I want to fuck you," Mark admits, quiet, the words dug out from deep in his chest, leaving it hollow in their wake.
Damien's mouth is hot and eager, sucking him in, pulling him closer and closer. It's mind-numbing. It's better than Mark had expected from him. Camera lights are shuttering behind his eyes more rapidly, the image searing itself there, he hopes. He feels hot all over, all of this moment so sharply in focus as the rest of world softens into absolute incoherence. Nothing else matters, exists, because his nerves are singing and wanting, being pulled to the edge by Damien's wanting mouth.
"Good boy," he whispers again, this time not met with resistance. His hips are moving; Damien's hands are on his thighs for purchase, and only give an encouraging squeeze. Like he doesn't even mind. That's dizzying; he can't even process that, and when he tries he just winds up babbling, "Only time you're good for me, huh? But I can make you." He kind of knows this is stupid and kind of knows he is thrusting up into Damien's mouth too hard, but he's chasing a light that's getting brighter, a light so close to exploding, and-- "Fuck, I could make you so good, Damien."
It bursts. The final camera flash behind his eyes, the moment captured, frozen, a perfect infinity, protected as it's ending. He grips tighter into Damien's hair as he comes, watching himself fuck into Damien's mouth, thinking about making Damien fuck him when he doesn't want to.
He feels irredeemable before the aftershocks of the orgasm are even through.
Damien doesn't pull away until his cock has stopped twitching, stopped leaking come into his mouth. His body cracks when he sits back up, and despite everything, it tricks a small laugh from Mark. Then the blatant disgust on Damien's face starts to pull another laugh from him - but it dies in his throat when Damien swallows. Mark feels like the air has been punched out of him.
Damien wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then stares at Mark with a blank look on his face. "Alright," Damien says, "I don't get why that's always such a big deal."
"What?"
Damien looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable, though Mark supposes it isn't that uncharacteristic. He's seen plenty of it, tonight. "Swallowing," he says, eventually.
Mark stares at him. "You're kidding."
Damien focuses on straightening out his clothes and making himself decent. "No? I mean, kind of."
"That's all you have to say for yourself?"
"For myself?" Damien asks, taking on a more familiar, miffed expression. "I wasn't exactly the acting force here."
Guilt and indignation twist up painfully inside Mark. "No," he says, tugging his own pants back up and buttoning them. His bed feels like an island that he is waking up abruptly stranded on. "Things just happen to you, don't they?"
This is the then what. Sex – whatever form – that was the obvious conclusion. That had gone without saying. The real then what is: Damien isn't better. He says the right things and does the right things, and then what? Then you fuck, obviously. And then what?
Well, then you remember that Damien is Damien, and no amount of pretending you have power over him now will change who he is as a person. No amount of him trying to act the part will really make him good.
Mark feels like he's been shoved off a steep cliff. The high is gone and now he is just freezing in the collapse.
"Sometimes they do, yeah," Damien says, with a forced flatness like he is trying not to let this be a fight. He drops his weight back onto the bed, sitting on its edge, then can't seem to resist adding, "Sometimes I answer your call and I follow your instructions and I do what you tell me. But Yeah. My fucking bad, I guess."
"You could say no, Jesus, Damien."
Damien's eyes are set longingly on the door, as if he needs permission to leave, like some kind of reverse vampire. "Don't want to," he says.
His cheeks are flushed and his lips swollen. His breathing is starting to even out, but his hair is messy even after being hastily fixed. These are the only tells; his clothes are straightened and his posture relaxed. He is slouching, almost comfortably, with his arms loose, hands clasped together on his lap.
He shouldn't be so relaxed. He should be tense.
Suddenly it feels profoundly mortifying to just be sitting in the dark like this. Mark hears a sharp intake of breath, like Damien is about to say something. Then that swallowed back sound he makes on the phone. The one that Mark likes, that means Damien doesn't know how to react or what to say. A sound that usually means Mark has caught him off guard, that for just a second, he has the upper hand.
"What," Mark demands.
Damien fidgets. "Nothing."
"Say it."
"You won't like it."
"Yeah," Mark says, watching Damien's profile. "Probably not."
Damien steals a glance at him, then has to look away. He wipes his mouth again, maybe subconsciously, and Mark's heart skips a beat against his will. "Just thinking. I wish you really did have my ability."
Mark feels like he being asked to do calculus on the spot. Given what he had said in the heat of the moment, that could read a lot of ways.
Damien shrugs. He does not sound forlorn or embarrassed. Just annoyed, like this is a mild inconvenience. "Then I'd know what you want. If I felt it instead of guessing, I could do it right."
"Screw that, I don't feel sorry for you," Mark lies, because he does. It's so deeply pathetic that he can't help it. Damien's first sexual encounter ends with: I wish you were manipulating me, because I think you'd like that more.
"I didn't ask you to feel sorry for me," Damien snaps.
"But you want me to."
Damien throws his head back and groans up at the ceiling. "Who cares what I want? I don't get what I want anymore, so-"
"-Throwing a tantrum because you have to live like everyone else already does isn't exactly tragic."
Silence.
"And what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?" Mark asks. "You say that like you'll just – do whatever I want, but we both know you won't. You're not good like that. You never will be."
Mark is struck by the visceral and unfortunately recent memory of calling Damien a good boy, of promising to make him good, and curses his stupid horny brain.
Damningly, Damien just stares at the door impassively and says, "Hm."
"I shouldn't have to walk you through this," Mark says, exhaustion catching up with him. He wishes it would slow his racing heart. How long can his adrenaline stay spiked? He got what he wanted. It was as bad as he expected.
Well, no, the actual – the touching Damien part had been real nice. But this part is as bad as he'd thought it would be.
Damien doesn't say anything. In the dark, Mark can't tell if he's imagining the hunch of his shoulders, like a brace for impact.
A sigh drifts out of Mark. "You can't just do what I want. That doesn't balance the scale."
"Why not?"
"Because it doesn't. Balance can't come from either extreme. You have to actually meet in the middle. You can't trade what you want for what I want back and forth like a pendulum. You have to settle on something we both actually want and stay there. Are you five?"
Damien makes an offended sound. He is still staring at the door, and Mark still will not give him permission to leave. It really does feel like talking to a goddamn teenager. Except, no, because even Caleb and Adam have their shit more together than this.
What's the thing Caleb always says? Adam keeps him green. Being around Adam is a nice, comfortable feeling. Mark wonders if he'll ever know what that's like. He hadn't even felt that way with--
"--But if I actually want whatever you want--"
"--You don't."
"You don't get to decide that."
"I am trying to help you," Mark complains. He is at the end of his rope. He is walking Damien with baby-steps through healthy relationships 101, trying to lead him far away from the unparalleled mess that, sure, Damien is responsible for to begin with, but that Mark can't comfortably say anyone deserves.
He wishes vindication didn't bring so much guilt with it. He wishes he were a worse person. Then he could just take the satisfaction of hurting Damien without getting twisted up in the morality of revenge.
He can't see it, but can tell from Damien's tone that he is rolling his eyes. "Isn't that the same? It's you trying to decide what I want."
"No," Mark says, petulantly. He's sure he could articulate a real argument if he tried, but he's so tired of this.
"No," Damien repeats. He laughs under his breath, low and mirthless. "Alright." He stands up, starting to cross the room, and panic flits through Mark for a flash of: No that's not fair, I didn't say you could leave.
"Wait."
Damien stops. Mutters, "Make up your mind."
"I will break this down for you," Mark grinds out with impatience. "This – you are a vice. I made that clear."
"Well, thanks," Damien drawls.
Mark ignores him. "Which means that this was a relapse. A bad choice. Because you can never be good for me, and I can never be good for you."
Damien finally faces him, turning back to the bedside to look down at Mark. His eyes are narrowed like he's looking for a fight. The way he looms might be intimidating, if not for how pitiful he's being. "Why not?"
"Why n–because! There's no solution to some mistakes. There's no sorry for kidnapping and lying and isolating someone. You can't just wait out the trauma on those, it's not going anywhere. And you especially can't do it if you don't feel remorse in the first place, and if you doubled down on being a fuck up as hard as you did, afterwards."
"But I can't do it again."
"Can't is not a reassuring word, here!"
"Won't," Damien amends, impatient.
"Of course you won't! That's not high on my list of concerns. I don't know how you can hear this so many times without understanding it, but it isn't about repetition, it's about having done it in the first place. And not even feeling bad afterwards."
Damien's mouth pulls thin.
Mark furrows his brow. "What," he demands again.
Damien takes in a deep breath, then lets it out slow. "Nothing."
"Tell me."
"You won't like it."
"I don't like anything you say and I don't like when you're quiet, either. I just don't like you. So say it."
Damien actually winces, at that. It takes a moment before he mutters, "I do feel bad." Before Mark can argue, he grinds out, "But it doesn't matter. You don't have to keep explaining that it doesn't matter. I know it doesn't. I get it. How I feel doesn't unbreak it. At a point, all I can do is disengage."
He's right, which is annoying. "You said no one's broken."
"They're not. Look, mixed metaphors, whatever, you get the point. You want there to be a right way for me to do things so you can complain that I'm not doing that. But it's dangerous to get so specific, because those are things I can do."
"If you're looking at it like 'feeling bad' is on some kind of to-do list, I don't believe that it's real for a second."
"Yeah," Damien says, eyes boring into Mark's so intently that he has to look away. He had liked them, dazed and hazy, but now the clarity is piercing. Mark still feels the gaze burning into him as Damien adds, "Nothing I can do about that. Like I said. At a point, the only thing I can do is disengage."
"Wish we all had that luxury."
Damien's voice is quiet. "You did. You called me."
"You called me first," Mark snaps.
Damien has the decency to sound a little bit ashamed. "You could have blocked my number. You didn't have to call back."
"What part of this is worth it? What part of this seems like it could be good to you?!" Mark demands, head whipping back to stare Damien down.
"If," Damien starts, then has to pause to search for words. "If you'd just tell me what you want, I'd do it. Then I would be good for you. Whatever that looks like, I'd – it'd be enough. For me. You're good. No matter what, having you around me is good."
"Leave," Mark says, because the last dregs of his fury are finally draining from him, and he doesn't know how to proceed from here without it. He is tired, and he is afraid of what he will say and do when he is tired. He is afraid of how easy it would be to hurt Damien just to prove him wrong, afraid of how much he wants to. He is just as afraid of how tempting it is to pull him into bed, to tell him to be quiet, and to just go the fuck to sleep.
Damien opens his mouth to protest, but doesn't. He leaves the room.
Mark listens to him cross the apartment and close the door behind him. There is a soft thud against the door, and a long, long stretch of silence before footsteps finally disappear down the stairway.
Then he is left alone in the dark and the still, thinking of Damien's parents leaving when they're told.
***
Unfortunately, Mark is still a fucking idiot.
It takes four weeks of jerking off to the memory of Damien's mouth, and the occasional fantasy about more than that for his resolve to break. Then it's Mark's birthday, and he's alone, and he's drinking, and those memories and fantasies are both so vivid. Damien had been so desperate and willing, and it's - it's fine! It's not, but it is. It won't be later, but it is now.
"You didn't call me today," Mark says, when Damien answers the phone. "Good boy."
That bitten-back sound of surprise. That little "nh?" that captivates Mark so much. Then a scoff. "Are you drunk?"
"Little bit," Mark admits. "But hey. Vices."
"Vices," Damien repeats, quiet.
Mark waits.
"Happy birthday or whatever," Damien says.
"You remembered," Mark coos. "How sweet."
"Well. I have heard from a trustworthy source that I'm, ah," Damien's smooth drawl comes to an abrupt halt, like he can't quite bring himself to say it. He sounds awkward when he finishes: "A good. Boy."
"Oh, you're really not," Mark says. "But that's what makes it fun to say."
"Not a good fit," Damien says. Mark waits for the insincere self-depreciation and the anger it's going to bring him. Instead Damien adds, "I am older than you."
Mark does not point out that it is only a three month difference. "Even better."
A small laugh. "No fun birthday plans with all your little friends?"
"Don't say 'little friends,' it makes you sound like a cartoon super villain. I already talked to them today. Are you jealous?"
Damien doesn't answer, which Mark suspects means that he knows there's no right answer. That whatever his answer is, Mark would rip it to shreds.
"I wanted to talk to you," Mark says, to smooth the moment over, and lets out a pleased exhale when Damien makes his sound again.
"Really? Because it sounds like you called to sexually harass me." Damien says, amused and wary at the same time. Mark wonders if there's a limit. He wonders if that's a scale that can tip too far.
"Maybe."
"Yeah?" Damien repeats back, like he's breathing the word out, and Mark's cock twitches. His voice is always so low that Mark doesn't even think he's doing it on purpose. "Thought we weren't good for each other. Or do you only want me when you're drunk?"
Probably that accusation should not also make his dick hard, but what can you do. "Wasn't drunk last time."
"And you sent me home. So. Theory still stands."
"Did you want to stay?" Mark asks. In the dark empty of his apartment, even his soft voice is piercing. He wonders what surrounds Damien; if these words take up as much of his space as they do Mark's. He wonders if Mark's voice overtakes everything else, the way that Damien's does to him.
Damien sounds irritated, but Mark translates this as embarrassed. "Thought that was obvious."
"Obvious?" Mark lets out a short laugh. "You looked terrified half the time."
Damien snaps, "I wasn't." The line goes silent. White noise. A creak, like he is sitting down on something. A couch? A bed? Eventually he begrudgingly concedes, "I told you I'd just. Never." The end of his sentence goes stilted; he doesn't finish, but the point gets across.
"I guess," Mark says. He decides to embarrass Damien. It definitely isn't just because he's thinking about it fondly that Mark says, "Alright. You were pretty enthusiastic about sucking my dick."
"Well, yeah," Damien says, nonplussed, like this is the most obvious thing in the world.
A soft "Oh," slips out of Mark unbidden. Maybe that shouldn't surprise him. Damien was not subtle about having no boundaries for Mark. It had been his first time giving a blowjob, and when Mark had fucked into his mouth and made him gag, all he'd done was encourage him. He had just taken it and swallowed his come, after.
Fuck. Mark palms at his erection. It's been weeks and the bob of his Adam's apple is still visceral. The complete nonchalance of that swallow.
"Was it," Damien begins, tentatively. "Was it okay?"
Mark closes his eyes. "It was good, Damien."
He can picture the other man nodding, pleased with himself. He scolds himself for inventing things to be endeared by.
"I could do it again," A pause. "If you want."
"That desperate?" Mark asks, without thinking.
"Yeah," Damien says, a low murmur, almost like he is talking to himself more than to Mark. "I think so."
Goddammit. Mark's hand slips into his sweatpants. His hand circles his cock and tugs at it loosely. Warm relief washes over him immediately, chased by a new wave of unsatiated want. "Shouldn't be surprised. After you swallowed so nice for me."
A slight hitch in Damien's breath, not quite the sound Mark likes, but a good one. God, touching himself is better with sound. With someone else. Even the illusion of someone else.
"You'd do it again, wouldn't you? If I let you. Wouldn't even need me to touch you in return, you'd just suck me off if I asked."
"Mm."
"... Would I even need to ask?"
Mark hears a rustle of movement and desperately wishes that he could see Damien. See where he is. Where his hands are. Like it's something shameful, Damien admits, "No."
Mark digs into that. "No. I could just tell you what to do. You'll do what I want, won't you? If I tell you I want something..."
A shaky exhale. A long, deep breath, one that Mark finds himself mirroring as he slides his fist up and down his hard cock. His whole body feels pleasantly hot, like a perfect summer day, like after a hot bath.
"Answer."
"Yeah," Damien says. Damien answers him. Damien does what he says. He's across town and can't even get anything in exchange for his obedience, he just wants to do what Mark says. Even after the fight. After anything? That's an intoxicating thought.
"Good boy," Mark murmurs.
Damien doesn't answer; Mark hears a rhythmic rustle over the line. Slow, and patterned with Damien's breathing.
He wants desperately to see his flushed face, that bright, bright red that it had gotten when Mark touched him. Maybe that's why he's quiet. Maybe he's going just as weak and malleable for Mark's words as he had under his hands. Making do with his own hands, instead, helplessly wanting what he can't have. Maybe he's stroking his own cock through his boxers. Maybe he's slipped them down around his thighs.
Mark wonders what his eyes look like - if they're crystalline or cloudy.
"You like when I call you that?"
Damien lets out that delicious 'Nh?" from the back of his throat. Startled by the question, and quiet for so long that Mark thinks he might have to remind him to answer. Then, "Yeah."
Mark bites back the sound he wants to make. His hips move up into his fist as he squeezes, heat spreading through his whole body. "Why? Tell me."
"Just feels nice."
Mark waits for more.
Damien makes a small, frustrated noise. He'd expected Mark to keep guiding them, but when Mark doesn't say anything, Damien gets the message and says, stilted, "I don't know. Never been good before."
Mark swallows. He fists his cock, and a searing white heat coils inside him, tightening and tightening, ready for release. He pictures Damien touching himself, and wonders if that's real or if that's just wishful thinking. He thinks, he thinks that's what those breathy sounds mean, what that movement in the background is.
He's not positive.
"Never seemed worth it," Damien adds.
"But you want to, for me," Mark says. More for himself than Damien. He talks big about the danger of that pendulum swing, but now he wants it to go just another inch further, just another step past acceptable. The further it swings the more Damien wants him, and that kind of power is addictive. His mind is hazy through the alcohol, and his eyes close to keep the walls from pulsing, unwilling to let himself be distracted from his own imagination. "Yeah?"
Damien breathes, "Yeah. Mark, are you--"
"--Damien."
There's a bitten back whimper over the line, and God, that's good. Sweat beads at Mark's forehead, he's so close, he's so close. His mind is racing for the next thing to say, the next accusation to make as his hand moves faster, but he doesn't get the chance. Damien makes another little "Nn," and Mark's breath catches. That coil inside him is undone all at once, come hitting his stomach and dripping over his fingers, as memories and fantasies flash by behind his eyelids.
He takes deep, gasping breaths as he comes back down. His dark apartment looms around him, its emptiness pushing back into his awareness. He feels cold, suddenly, inside and out.
Now what? Damien can't be good, Damien wanting to be good is laughable. He has ulterior motives. He's mixing up having a stupid crush for wanting to change as a person, but he'll never really get better. He'll never be good.
Maybe that should be the next thing Mark tells him.
Damien's breathing is heavy, close to the microphone. He lets out another needy, "Mn," that makes Mark's brain feel like it's rebooting, kicking him out of that spiral and straight back into his lust. The wave of want that washes over him could knock him down if he were upright. He wants to tell Damien to come for him, to come to his apartment and let him make him come.
A part of him is acutely aware that he is not actually certain that Damien is doing what Mark wants him to be doing. Sounds can be misinterpreted. He could be multitasking, busy with something else and just weird enough to make it seem like – like something else. That scenario is mortifying. The alternative is increasingly mortifying too, the longer he dwells on it in silence and the louder his head insists that he say: Let me hear how bad you want me, baby, that's it.
So Mark hangs up.
He thinks about Damien telling him 'You could have blocked my number. You didn't have to call me back.' And he decides, well, that's a two way street. Damien can deal with it and deal with himself. If that's even what was happening.
Fuck. Okay.
Mark decides to at least raise his expectations for himself to a step above drunk-calling Damien just to jerk off to his voice from now on.
***
In fact, Mark should really just try to keep his distance altogether. He's clearly a total mess when it comes to Damien. Sometimes the most mature thing to do is remove yourself from the picture. If you're an alcoholic who wants to get better, you don't keep liquor in your home. Ideally you should be able to resist temptation, but if you can't, keeping it far, far away from yourself is just as good.
Hopefully, Mark will manage this follow-through with Damien better than he does with alcohol.
He just needs to disengage.
Like Mark had said before moving to the city Damien lives in.
Like Damien had said.
God. Okay. So he was capable of being right about one thing, and he had kept his distance after they met up, and it had been Mark who called him for drunk maybe-possibly-probably phone sex. At least this means that Damien won't sabotage his attempt at distance.
So time passes.
Mark still thinks about fucking Damien too much, and about the sounds he makes and how spaced-out his eyes looked. He tries calling on other memories and fantasies, because he wasn't exactly single before all this, he has plenty of material to pull from, but his mind always stubbornly flicks back to Damien.
As long as he doesn't let himself daydream. As long as it doesn't spill over into anything other than getting off. As long as he doesn't call Damien or talk to Damien or meet up with Damien, it's fine.
He goes on a little tour around the state with a shitty garage band, and that's a nice distraction. Hard to think about anything erotic when you're on a bus with five guys who are decidedly not your type and who can give you zero privacy.
Mark still finds them charming though, in their own way. He likes taking pictures of them. They're so open and comfortable with each other that it makes him feel like he's only ever known strangers. Their music is... rough around the edges, if Mark is being polite. Not his genre. But it's honest, and it's energetic, and it gets his blood pumping whether he's listening from backstage or balconies or the middle of a crowd. And the venues are always packed, so it must be for someone out there.
Their last set is back home, like coming full circle. It's tempting to slip away and go home early. But Mark does what he's paid to. He moves through the crowd, taking a dozen identical photos for them to choose favorites from, later. It isn't so bad to stay for one last show. Whenever he looks at the leader singer he feels this rush, like he never wants to be anywhere else. When he looks around him, he gets it, he finally understands the appeal of this music, like it just needed to sink in.
Two weeks of hearing the same set-list over and over, and Mark still feels his pulse thrum with excitement under his skin. The vibration of the bass lingers in the soles of his feet and the bottom of his heart, even as the lights come on and the crowd thins, and the speakers take over with soft ambient music.
He is sweaty from all the moving bodies, and makes his way to the back of the room to finally get a drink from the bar. Just something to cool him off before he leaves.
Behind the counter, Damien looks at him. Blinks once. Then asks, "What can I get you?"
"Oh my God," Mark mutters.
Damien perks up, leaning forward and genuinely trying to hear Mark over the flow of bodies filtering towards the exit. God, this really is his job, isn't it? He has a job. It's surreal.
Mark picks a beer from the menu at random; he isn't picky. Against his better judgement, he takes a seat at one of the stools by the counter.
"You shouldn't drink so much," Damien says, setting the bottle down in front of him.
Mark feels giddy. It's not new, necessarily, because being around Damien is always charged in one way or another. But it's usually not in such a good way. It usually feels scary, stirring up a vortex of resentment and desire, with a side of too much self awareness. But tonight he just feels happy to see him, and... Embarrassed?
That's a weird one. He takes the bottle and says, "That makes you an enabler."
Another little flutter of warmth as Damien looks away, like he needs to be available for someone else, but the only people in the area are in the process of leaving. Another worker is already gathering up glasses and bottles left behind; Mark is the only one still seated.
Damien shrugs, eventually. "Not my responsibility."
"No," Mark says. "It's not."
Damien's laugh surprises him; it isn't the bitter sound he's used to. It's just alluring, like his voice, just nice to hear. "Not like you can get into much trouble. We're closing up. Drink and leave."
"I don't think you should be working a job like this," Mark says, still taking his time with his drink despite the blatant hurry up.
"Not your responsibility." Damien takes a tub of dirty glassware from his coworker, barely acknowledging she exists. Like he still thinks people on his same level are below him, Mark thinks, but then... No, that's not it, because he likes her. There's this low ember of fondness for her that Mark can feel the warmth of.
For lack of a good retort, Mark drinks in an annoyed silence.
Damien washes glasses, and the music hall empties. The room feels familiar and comfortable, like a low-burning campfire. It isn't home, but it feels nice to be here. Outside the doors, he can hear the buzz of guests buying shirts and CDs. In the crowd, he had felt so sure that he belonged in the noise, that he never wanted the quiet again, but now that it's over, this new moment is perfect too. Just being here with Damien is relaxing.
The girl from before comes over to Damien, pointedly bumping into him as she begins to wipe down the counter-top. Damien raises an eyebrow down at her.
"Jamie," Damien says.
"Damie," she mimics.
Mark frowns into his drink, hyper-aware of Damien's affection for her, settled into him like it's a part of the scenery. She's... cute... he supposes.
"You can go now," Jamie says, setting aside her rag and reaching into the tub for a dirty glass to clean. "Like, please go."
"Not gonna argue," Damien says. He puts down his own glass so quickly that Mark wonders if he'd even finished cleaning it. Jamie must have the same idea, because she catches Mark's look and rolls her eyes with a little spark of exasperation.
"You're leaving early?" Mark asks, offended on Jamie's behalf.
"He was off like two hours ag--"
"--I'm leaving, I'm leaving," Damien interrupts with a groan, and Mark feels the embarrassment come off of him like invisible sparks. Damien steps out from the counter. Hesitates at Mark's side. His insides suddenly feel like an inferno. Like there's an all-consuming desire that wants so much not to be alone, and then - Damien leaves. And then it's gone and cold.
Jamie looks after him, confused. Then to Mark.
"You're not going with him? I thought..."
Mark drinks. "Thought what?"
Jamie frowns. Mark feels clammy from the sweat he'd worked up during the concert. He tries to focus on her, to hear out her explanation, but her feelings wash over him as soon as he's focused on her. A curiosity and confusion, because she'd thought she understood, and that had been kind of fun, and now...
"Oh," they both say, pointing at each other.
"How can you be an empath and work a place like this?" Mark asks, not bothering to skirt around it as he slots the pieces together. Wanting to stay in the noise when he'd been watching the singer. Suddenly loving the music when he'd watched the crowd. Feeling – happy when he'd been watching Damien, and feeling fond, and feeling that hot, burning want.
Now that Damien is gone, Jamie's confusion rolls over him again. "Huh? It's nice. Everyone's so energetic. I can always find someone in a good mood." After a pause, she admits, "Well, the drop at the end of the night can be weird, but. You know."
He doesn't quite, but nods slowly. "The other empaths I know tend to get overwhelmed by crowds," he says, testing.
"I can only feel one person at a time. More sounds fun!" Then she falters. A small pulse of guilt. "I mean, difficult. Probably. I - didn't know there were other empaths. Specifically."
"But you know there are other--" He doesn't have to finish the sentence to feel her affirmation. "I'll – just - here." Mark gives a very, very brief spiel, then writes down Joanie's number for her, because he is a good Samaritan. He hopes.
She must feel his uncertainty, because it mirrors back at him when she takes the scrap of paper. She pockets it, anyway.
"So you're an empath too," Jamie says, and Mark doesn't correct her. Her eyes drift off towards the exit, hands working methodically on yet another glass. He feels that soft breeze of her confusion again, with an undercurrent this time. Sympathy? But not for him.
Weird. He's used to being the only one who has sympathy for Damien.
He shouldn't press, but can't help it. He swallows the last of his drink, pushes the bottle towards her, and asks, "What? What's that about?"
She flusters. "Well – you know. He was just here. You must know."
"Ah," Mark says. He wishes his bottle weren't empty, so he could take one last drink as a distraction.
Jamie's expression scrunches up as she looks back to him, and for the first time, Mark thinks about the fact this hasn't just been him feeling what she feels. Since Damien left, she has been feeling Mark's emotions. This shameful, tangled mess of want and guilt and resentment that – Christ, she had called him Damie, there's no way she knows a thing about him. There's no way for her to contextualize how Mark feels, and without context it's all just one huge, incoherent red flag.
Is he supposed to warn her away from Damien? They'd done it before. Damien had started to make some semblance of a friend and the whole gang of them had given themselves the honorable duty of isolating him, of keeping him from any support to help right himself. Or they had stopped him from entrenching himself in another person's life to ruin it. It's a gamble. One that Mark is tired of participating in, like that.
"He's alright," she says, sensing the spike in his emotions and probably thinking she has the gist of it. Mark tries to regulate himself, but discomfort settles in. He needs to get away from her. He can't handle how carefully she is trying to navigate this; she shouldn't have to.
Poor girl. Empaths and mind-readers have it bad. Meet another atypical and you get buried twenty feet deep in their business, whether you mean to or not. During your shift, even.
She continues on with a careful gentleness. "Like, he is my friend, I think, or at least, I'd like for him to be. To hang out outside of work every now and then or meet my girlfriend, or - something. You know? Because he's lonely. But also, like, he's mean? He feels a lot of mean feelings. I usually want to focus on anyone else. So I'm not all the way team Damie or anything, just because... Yeah. "
So Damien's emotions have been enough of a mess for her to feel Mark's and still figure out that Mark isn't the toxic one. That's – validating, in a way.
"And it isn't like genuine feelings can't still lead to something bad, but I..." She trails off. Her hands still, paused with a glass held in front of her. She thinks she shouldn't say this, but then her eyes dart up to Mark because there's no way she can't feel his curiosity. His desperation for her to say it, his dread of what it might be.
Jamie returns to her work. She focuses very intently on wiping down the glass, which Mark thinks was clean a long time ago.
She says, "I did love you, tonight. When he saw you."
***
Love.
Love?
Love.
Love?
"Asshole," Mark mutters under his breath, climbing the steps to his apartment.
Damien is trailing after him like a puppy that's already forgotten it's been kicked. "What did I even do this time," he says, without the inflection of a question. He sounds tired.
"You didn't leave, for one," Mark says. He pulls his keys from his pocket, fumbling his way inside and resisting the temptation to slam the door in Damien's face.
His apartment feels cold and hollow, but a part of him is still happy to see it for the first time in weeks. He doesn't even mind the tour bus beds - it's the cheap motels he has to brace himself to step into, each time. Tonight, he finally gets to sleep in his own bed again.
"You told me to come over," Damien points out, stepping inside. Closing the door behind him, and leaning against it with a soft thud.
"Because you were just standing outside in the rain!" As an afterthought, because he is a disaster of a person who constantly sits in the dark, Mark flicks on the lights.
"I was waiting for a cab."
"You were waiting for me," Mark accuses.
Damien's gaze slices away. "Maybe."
"Had you even called for one?"
Silence. Mark sets his bag down carefully, then moves across the room to drop himself down onto the sofa, sprawling out across it. Damien doesn't move.
"Are you waiting for permission?" Mark asks, arching an eyebrow.
"... No," Damien says, after a conspicuous pause. He still doesn't move.
He had been different at the venue, talking back and making his own choices. Mark guesses he can sympathize. Considering last time Damien had been in his apartment, Mark had been biting at his neck three steps in the door, and led him to the bedroom so easily that there was no need for trying to figure out where he was meant to go. It makes some sense, then, that he wouldn't know what's expected of him, this time.
Especially given their only other contact between then and now. Especially given how both those interactions had ended.
But after talking with Jamie, Mark had stepped outside, and Damien had been among the lingering crowd of concert-goers. He had been leaning against the brick wall of the building and staring up at nothing until Mark approached him. When Mark had said to follow, Damien had nodded.
Mark sighs. "Come here."
Obediently, Damien joins him on the couch, making himself comfortable at the far end. Time stretches on in silence until Damien finally breaks it. His voice is steady and honest. If that's a word one can ever use to describe Damien. "I want to know what you're thinking about."
"Okay," Mark says, but doesn't elaborate. So now he knows what Damien wants. Neat. Like that's ever been the issue.
The non-answer earns him an impatient growl, and Damien's head turns to look away from him. After a moment to compose himself, though still sounding just as impatient, Damien starts, "Last time we talked--"
"Haha," Mark says, brightly. "We're not talking about that."
"Okay..."
Mark adjusts a throw pillow to rest between his head and the armrest, and lays down more comfortably. His eyelids feel heavy. So does the rest of his body. Two weeks of concerts does that.
"So," Mark says. "Bartending, huh?"
"Seemed easy. Real familiar with bars."
"I'm sure."
Damien's voice, low and calm, drifts from across the sofa. "I knew a bartender when I was a kid. Spent a lot of time loitering around her work."
Mark's brow pinches. Damien doesn't talk about his past. Damien doesn't talk about his childhood or his parents or people he used to know. "Who was letting you in bars when you were a kid?"
"Not that young a kid."
"And I bet they weren't exactly letting you of their own free will, either."
"Nope." Damien sounds bored. "Always comes back to that."
It does, and it makes Mark feel like he's insane. Damien doesn't even have his ability anymore, and when he did he used it wrong, those are objective truths. But Mark remembers having it, and he remembers wanting things and the way that want exerted itself no matter how much he tried to hold it back.
He knows the answer will make him mad. "Do you miss it?"
Damien scoffs. "Of course."
"And here I thought you were trying not to say things you know would upset me."
"That doesn't mean I'm going to lie. Uh, yeah, it was way better when I could have whatever I wanted. No shit."
"Then the other things you've said were true?"
Damien doesn't answer him. They were, weren't they. Well.
"You really wish that I had your power to use it on you?"
The sofa shifts slightly, Damien's body going loose in resignation.
"It makes things easier," Damien mutters, defensively. "I don't want just anyone to have it, just you. You know how it is, so you know how nice it can be to get a break from it. Too much of a good thing, etcetera."
"Then you should just want a break from it, that doesn't mean wanting me to have it."
"Doesn't matter." Damien's voice is quiet. "Neither of us have it."
"Why do you want me to have it?" Mark presses, even though Damien is right, even though Damien just explained.
"I already told you. It would make things easier."
"Because you think I wouldn't hurt you."
"Because you have the right to."
Mark takes in a sharp breath. Like he hasn't been thinking the same thing. He has to pry his eyes open, which hurts; he'd forgotten how bright the lights are. Across the sofa, Damien is slouched against the armrest, head tipped back to stare blankly at the ceiling.
"Jesus, you're pathetic," Mark mutters. He's not sure who he means. He lifts his arms. "Come here, stupid."
Damien looks at him sidelong, like he thinks it's a trap. Hesitates. Then does as he's told.
It takes maneuvering to get comfortable, but Damien lets Mark guide him until they're both lying on the sofa together. Damien's head is over his chest, his weight still held up cautiously like he thinks he might crush Mark. Which is funny, because Damien has lost weight since Mark met him, and for the first time, he's realizing that Damien is the shorter of them.
Mark has an arm around him, and gives him a light shove to make him relax. He does, the weight of his body unfamiliar and far, far more comforting than it should be. Mark has been out of that place for so long, and somehow he is still this touch-starved. It makes him shiver to think about, and he feels Damien's head shift against him, curious.
"I'm thinking," Mark says, closing his eyes again, "about inaction."
"Inaction," Damien repeats, unimpressed, even though it's a belated answer to his own stupid question.
"Not being able to touch anyone. Not being able to talk to anyone. Just watching people. For years. And then finally being able to interact with the world, but having to filter it through someone else's wants and lies. And then, when that's out of the way, choosing to filter everything through someone else's needs, like that's any better."
Damien doesn't flinch, doesn't say anything. A tentative hand drapes over Mark's pelvis to rest on his hip. The weight of it is grounding and comfortable.
"And now," Mark says, "I have to deal with you, again."
"It's not like I'll skip town on your command, but if you tell me to leave you alone," Damien starts, then Mark feels his chin dig uncomfortably into his chest as Damien chews his lip, choosing his words carefully. "If you tell me to block your number. If you tell me to stop saying yes."
How sad would that be? Making Damien enforce Mark's boundaries for him. Or would it be funny? Mark can't decide. He's not sure he even believes Damien would uphold that promise. Vices work both ways, with them.
Then again... Damien had called first, but he had only called once. After that it had been Mark. It had been Mark's invitation to the cafe, Mark's invitation back here. Mark's drunken phone call. Mark running into him at work. Damien hadn't called him in the stretches between rejections.
He doesn't want to think about that too deeply.
He doesn't want to think about anything. He just wants to sleep, now that he's home. He should have gotten them to the bed, and not even with ulterior motives. He rests his hand against Damien's back and doesn't fight the sleep that encroaches on him. He doesn't even respond to Damien's offer, but the other man doesn't complain.
***
His phone is ringing.
The ceiling light is too bright. He'd never turned it off. He's overheated from Damien's body pressed up against him, and it's heavy, and his neck hurts. His phone vibrates in his pocket again, and Damien grumbles incoherently, shifting in place.
Mark pulls his phone out, holding it to his ear with one hand, while his other keeps holding Damien.
Joanie's voice is a delicate balance of work and personal that never seems to slide one way or the other anymore, even when it should. "Did you refer a, ah... Jasmine Angelo to us?"
"Yeah," Mark croaks. He clears his dry throat. Tries again. "Yeah. Pretty sure. Earlier today. Guess she's on top of it."
A pause. White noise, and the clack-clack of a keyboard. "It's one in the morning, Mark. But alright, that's what I thought. She sent me a quick email, but it looks like she wrote it on her phone so it's a bit sparse. She didn't give your name, but I thought based on the city... You told her you're an empath? I assume because..."
"... She's an empath. Yeah."
"Jamie's an empath?" Damien asks, blinking awake.
Joanie goes silent.
Mark barely stops himself from saying go back to sleep, which he's sure would make this even worse. Instead he just swats at Damien to shut him up. Damien squints at him with tired eyes, swatting back, but going quiet.
"Mark," Joanie says, a warning that already sounds hopeless. "Please tell me that's not who I think."
"Well," Mark manages.
"Hey Dr. B," Damien says, louder, because he is an asshole. Mark thumps his fist against Damien's back. Damien's body shakes with a low laugh, his breath blooming warm over Mark's heart where he drops his head down.
"It's fine," Mark says in a hurry. "I promise."
"I," Joanie says, searching for words against such an obvious lie. "I trust you. And I love you. And I have... Concerns. Because I love you. And I would really, really like to talk about this."
"I wouldn't," Mark says, a bit too sharply. He can picture Joanie's pursed lips. "Right now," he amends. "Maybe later? It's - Joanie it's one in the morning, why are you still awake?"
The question drags a sigh out of her, despite how preoccupied with his mess she clearly is. "I just got home. We're still doing a lot of set up and we had a late night because Sam is setting up some kind of – program? For our internal database. But neither of us have much of an eye for designing an interface like that. Visually, I mean, so we were trying to design a layout together, but it's a mess. Artists really are necessary in all fields, aren't they?"
Mark's chest is an empty cavity. Just one mention of Sam's name makes him want to throw Damien off of him, more than Joanie's concern had.
"Yeah," he hears himself say, like it's someone else speaking for him. Smiling like he's supposed to and reading lines from a script: "Too bad my particular art expertise is elsewhere."
"Ah, speaking of. I take it you're home from the tour? How was it?"
Mark nods robotically. Then remembers that's pointless and says, "Yeah. It was fun, but I'm glad to be back in my own bed."
Joanie hesitates. "I see," she says, slowly. It takes him a second to realize why. He wonders why Damien isn't laughing at the grave he is digging for himself.
Mark also wonders why he isn't panicking, or even trying to correct himself. He doesn't feel in control. He doesn't feel real. "Anyway," he says, then nothing else.
"Anyway," Joanie agrees. "It's late. I'll just – let you... Get... Some sleep..."
Mark murmurs, "Good night, Joanie."
"Good night, Mark. I love you. If you ever need anything, I'm--"
"--I know. I know. I'm fine. I love you, too. Good night."
Joanie says good night one last time before she hangs up. Mark's head falls back against the throw-pillow, and he scrunches his eyes shut beneath the bright ceiling light. Damien's body is stilled, curled up to him. Mark doesn't feel present enough to even brace himself for what he knows is coming, so he just waits for the inevitable questions.
They don't come. After a long stretch of silence, Damien finally pulls up off of Mark. He crosses the room, and switches off the lights. Hesitates by the door.
He's going to leave, Mark realizes. He doesn't move from the couch, and Damien doesn't move from the entryway.
"Are you angry about Jamie?" Mark asks, looking at the ceiling.
"I don't know," Damien says. Even when he's quiet, his voice is so low that it rolls straight through Mark, inescapable. "I kind of knew. I can still feel people's minds. They're just behind wall. And she's - good. She looks out for people. More than a normal person could."
"She looks out for you," Mark clarifies.
"It doesn't matter."
"She's your friend."
"I don't have friends." The first crack in Damien's flat voice, a hint of frustration when he adds, "I don't get to."
"Not a people person?" Mark repeats.
Damien is quiet so long that Mark finally looks back to him, startled to be met with a glare. "Not a people person," Damien says. "Which I'm sure everyone will rush to warn her about until she never speaks to me again."
Mark sits up, but he still doesn't feel real. He knows that this should call something from him. Guilt? Indignation? He just feels empty. "No one is going to do that."
"This time," Damien mutters.
"This time," Mark agrees, cold. He doesn't mean to be.
Damien hovers by the door. Doesn't move. He wants so badly to leave, but Mark realizes that he's waiting for permission. Like he had the last time – after... Well.
"Are you okay?" Damien asks.
Mark pulls himself up off the couch, his back popping. He stretches, then circles around the couch to stand in front of Damien. It still startles him to be taller. He doesn't know why.
"I don't think so," Mark says.
Damien's eyes soften, and that's a – strange thing. It isn't like Damien ever looks at him coldly, but there's something about seeing that kind of care from him so close that throws him.
"Let's just," Damien says, but trails off when Mark's fingers touch his wrist. When Mark draws back, Damien follows, like pulled by gravity, all the way into the bedroom.
***
Mark still doesn't quite feel real, even with his cock in Damien's mouth. Which is too bad, because it's really, really good. It's like he remembers what Mark had guided him to do. Like he hasn't thought about anything else since, either.
Mark sits at the edge of his bed, legs spread, while Damien kneels on the floor in front of him. There was a transition between the living room and this, and Mark wonders if the memory will come to him later or if it's gone forever to the haze. Sometimes all you can do is let things happen, Mark thinks. Sometimes all you can do is observe, even your own life, even your own mistakes.
But observing isn't so bad. Looking down on Damien as his head bobs slow and languid. Taking his time, with one hand gently stroking the shaft of Mark's cock while he wraps his lips around the tip. Mark cards his fingers through Damien's hair, ignoring the pull of knots but not the way Damien's mouth drops open around him for one divine second as if he likes the pain.
Damien is hard. Mark can see the strain of his erection through his pants, and with a vague curiosity, Mark drags his bare foot over the other man's thigh. He feels the fabric of his dress pants, stretched tight by the position. He feels a questioning hum around his cock that sends a shiver up his spine, and gives Damien's hair another pet to reassure him.
Then presses his foot down against the bulge of Damien's cock. Damien's eyes had been closed, but they open now so he can give Mark a look. It's too hazy; Mark can't tell what that expression is supposed to mean. Only that Damien doesn't stop sucking him off, even as Mark lightly grinds his foot up and down.
"Good boy," Mark murmurs, satisfied with the way Damien twitches under him, and with the melting sensation overtaking his whole body. His consciousness is drifting by, aware only of the adoring warmth of Damien's mouth and the hard cock under his heel. The more he feels out the shape of him, the more real the world feels.
Awareness of himself, of his own body, comes to him in ebbing and flowing waves. Damien's tongue, flattened along the underside of his shaft. Hot velvet all around him until Damien draws back so far that Mark can feel his lips, like a wet kiss. The way Damien squirms, hips canting up against his foot, legs spreading on Mark's bedroom floor.
"Oh," Mark says, and works his fingers more gently through a tangle in Damien's hair now that he is aware again of his own hands. "Oh, you really do want it bad, don't you?"
Damien only gives an affirmative, "Mm," as he moves to kiss his way up and down Mark's shaft. He presses his cheek to Mark's thigh, for a moment seeming just to rest his head there like he is too overwhelmed to continue. His face is bright red - his eyes hazy. Mark presses his foot down hard, harder than he should, and Damien's breath hitches beautifully. Hot breath puffs against his cock, Damien's eyes close, and his head rests heavier against Mark's leg like he can't even right himself.
"God, look at you," Mark says. He pets Damien's hair and steps on his cock at the same time, and Damien just lets him, breathing hard like it's the best thing that's ever happened to him. Mark revels in it for a second longer, then tightens his grip in Damien's hair, commanding him, "Tell me what you want."
Glossy eyes blink open, bleary and taking a moment to focus on Mark at all. Damien swallows. "I don't know."
"Yes you do," Mark says. He drags his foot away from Damien's lap, resting it on his thigh again and feeling the way that thigh shifts again, legs parting further.
He moves his hand from the other man's hair, sliding his fingers over Damien's cheeks. Thumbing over his lips. They part for him; subconscious, maybe, and Mark slips his thumb into Damien's mouth. Obedient, Damien's lips close. He sucks, his tongue pressing against his fingertip, and that shouldn't be quite so hot when he'd just had Damien sucking him off a minute ago.
"You want me to fuck you, don't you, Damien?"
"Mm," Damien agrees, mouth still closed around Mark's thumb.
He shivers. Presses his thumb down on Damien's tongue, then pulls out. "Alright," he says, and motions for Damien to rise. Obediently, he stands up between Mark's spread legs, letting Mark help to undress him. He's malleable. Quiet, following Mark's lead.
"Nervous?" Mark asks.
"No," Damien lies, transparent.
Mark pulls him onto the bed. Gets him on his stomach, guiding him with lingering touches because - the other times had been quicker than this. Pants tugged down around the thighs, shirt shoved up out of the way. This time he gropes the shape of Damien's calves and thighs, and runs his hand up the smooth expanse of his back. Mostly because it's fascinating, but the way Damien relaxes is an added bonus.
The cut of his shoulder blades becomes less dramatic. He stops looking over his shoulder, trying not to seem anxious, and finally rests his head on crossed arms, eyes closing.
"I trust you," Damien says, like an idle thought.
You shouldn't, Mark wants to say, but he doesn't waste his breath. It would just be rehashing an argument that he doesn't want to have – not when there are better things to focus on.
It makes for a noticeable, awkward silence. Damien's words hang in the air like a heavy mistake.
"So," Mark says to distract himself. He digs his thumb into Damien's back, easing out a tension knot, before moving lower. "Have you ever actually had anything in you?"
Damien's head bows. His voice is muffled by his arms and the pillow: "Haven't done this before. You know that."
"It's not like you can't do it alone."
"Haven't," Damien grinds out, sounding kind of like he wants to die.
His ears are bright red and the tension Mark had eased out of him is back, but Mark is fairly sure that was inevitable. "You're lying," Mark observes.
"Whatever," he grumbles. "Can you hurry up?"
Mark scoffs and says "No," but still reaches for a bottle of lube in the windowsill. He should probably at least finger Damien first, even if there's something very enticing about just not doing that.
There's still a special kind of fascination with Damien's body. Mark doesn't know what it is. He isn't movie-star hot, he isn't even takes care of himself hot. But the dimples at his lower back, the exact shape of his thighs and calves, the bony angle of his shoulder blades, all stick out to Mark so much that he wishes he could immortalize them on film.
Which is an option, he supposes.
"It'll feel better if you relax," Mark tells him. He sees Damien flinch at the sound of the bottle opening. There's only so much he can do for him, really, so Mark doesn't waste time. He pours lube on his fingers.
He doesn't press inside at first. He just feels around, spreading the lube, letting Damien get used to it. He leans over the other man's body, enjoying the warm that radiates off of him, enjoying the view of his back spread out like this. He watches the tension come and go as he presses his lips to his spine, then gently eases a finger into him.
The tension comes back, of course. Damien's whole body goes brittle, face burying in his arms. The red flush from his ears spreads over his shoulders. He doesn't say anything; the only sounds he lets out are short breaths that he is trying to keep even.
Mark fingers him slowly, his other hand sliding down Damien's side. He holds his hip, and gently guides him to lift up off the bed, onto his knees. All the while, he pushes in and out, rhythmic and careful. Damien is slow to relax, slow to stop shivering. It's a subtle shift, the way his breathing changes from bitten back to a whimper.
In time, it turns to desperation. Mark's hand on his hip isn't guiding him at all, he's just pressing back against Mark's hand on his own, quiet sounds still muffled by his arms. It makes Mark's whole body feel like it's on fire, finger-fucking Damien and seeing him face-down, ass-up, wanting more. He wonders how long he could drag this out. How long he could deny giving him what he wants. He wonders if he could send Damien home right now, after only this, and what the next inevitable phone call would sound like.
There's something good in there, but there's also – something about it that isn't fun anymore. He doesn't want to hurt Damien, he thinks. Or, he does, but maybe only physically.
His brain is mush, he can't psychoanalyze himself right now. He doesn't want to turn Damien away, just wants to fuck him into the mattress until he cries.
Mark pulls his finger out and hastily slips his pants off. He pulls his shirt off over his head.
He should probably put a condom on, but doesn't.
Damien's body trembles like he's cold, now, and Mark strokes his own cock to the sight of him. Only for a moment, then he is pouring lube onto his length, moving behind Damien. He eases in slow, against the temptation to not, and hears Damien choke on his own spit. He doesn't make another sound. He goes tense, then loosens, and his breath goes so even that he must be carefully timing it.
Mark hunches over him, his chest to Damien's back, burying his cock deep inside him and stilling there. He feels stars behind his eyes, camera flashes, the concept of infinity burning up and burning up. He slips his hand down to grope at Damien's thigh reassuringly, and - Damien shifts back against him when he does.
"Hurt?" Mark asks, and tries not to sound deeply strained by not moving.
Damien doesn't answer for a long moment that makes Mark's stomach drop. All he can see is the back of his head, his greasy hair all messed up and then - Damien lifts his head, slightly. Turns to look over his shoulder with a red-face and drool smeared at the corner of his mouth. "Lil' bit," he says. "'S fine."
Mark squeezes his thigh again, and presses a kiss between his shoulder blades.
Damien squirms impatiently, beneath him. Hesitates, then ventures, like he's not sure if he's even allowed to ask, "Move?"
"Yeah," Mark breathes. "'Course."
He thrusts, slow and careful until he's sure Damien is ready for more. It takes working up to, he knows, and he doesn't even have the capacity right now to think anything of how easily he's shifted into caring for Damien. Into wanting Damien to actually get something from this.
Which he must be, Mark thinks, based on the long, satisfied but shaky exhale that drifts out from him. Based on the way he starts to meet Mark's movements, even if he stays just as slow, like he doesn't think he's allowed to change the pace.
"Better?" Mark asks.
"Yeah," Damien mumbles. He sounds out of it, and Mark wonders if that's a good thing or not.
He presses his palm to Damien's abdomen, encouraging his movements. "Still with me?"
Like he doesn't even understand the question, Damien makes that swallowed nh?
But that's good enough for Mark. He straightens up, both hands at Damien's hips, and finally lets himself quicken the pace. He lets himself fuck into Damien harder, chasing the friction, the hotness inside him that seems to spread a fire into Mark's gut. It's an inferno, it decimates everything else, leaves nothing in its wake. No nightmares, no guilt, no resentment, just heat and the slap of skin, and – fuck, he feels good.
Damien's first moan sends lightning up Mark's spine; it's low, choked out of him by surprise. Damien's head shifts, burying in his arms again with shame. When Mark pauses, Damien doesn't, his hips still moving, still pushing back to take Mark as deep as he can, then grind against him like even that isn't enough.
"Fuck," Mark manages, hazy, "Damien."
Damien shivers, squeezes him tighter. His fingers are gripping the pillow tight. He feels like heaven inside, and there's something so deeply satisfying about him finally moving too. The entire world has melted away and now all that exists is Damien in his bed, on his cock.
"Feel good?" Mark asks, and his face is hot, and he knows Damien won't answer. He watches his cock sink into Damien again, again, watches Damien split open for him. He feels sweat on his throat, and fucks into Damien so hard that he chokes, hands scrambling to grab at the pillow again. "Say it."
Damien's voice slurs, "Really good."
"That's it - good boy."
Damien's whole body shudders, then stills, or something close to it. He is still shivering, his whole body quaking like his legs might give out. He makes some kind of wordless flustered sound, this one decidedly less sexy than the one that Mark likes so much, then eventually says, "Uh."
Mark leans over him, hips still moving, but slow again. Damien is sweaty, a kind of cold that's almost nice between their burning skin. Mark blinks. "Did. You just--"
"--Die."
Mark doesn't laugh. He feels like he should. He wouldn't feel guilty for it, even. But his mind hiccups to a halt to process this, and then his cock twitches, hard, which makes Damien twitch beneath him, and it's all too overwhelmingly hot when it shouldn't be.
When he pulls out, Damien makes a sound of protest. It stops when Mark touches him, pulling at his sides and hips to move Damien onto his back. Which probably means Damien is stuck laying on a small pool of his own come, but fuck it. Mark's not giving up this sight over that small detail, they can shower afterwards or - something. Who cares.
Damien is still flushed all over, chest heaving. His cock is going soft, come still dripping down it. Mark pulls Damien's hips up towards him, watching his face. His features are relaxed and sleepy, head turned to the side, but still watching Mark side-long like he can't quite bring himself not to.
"Oh," is all Damien says, when Mark starts to push into him again, before shifting to try and help.
"God, fuck," Mark mutters, feeling like the words are torn from his throat as he sinks in. Damien gasps, then bites his lip like it helps him keep quiet, like he's overwhelmed and oversensitive, but doesn't want to stop, and Mark feels like his soul is being ripped from his body just watching him. In a good way. Whatever the fuck that means. "Can't believe you."
"What does that even," Damien mutters, stopping to catch his breath, then not bothering to start again.
He's so impossibly hot inside. More relaxed now, but more sensitive too – his legs tremble around Mark, twitching each time Mark bottoms out.
"I didn't even have to touch you," Mark mumbles, closing his eyes, losing himself in the feeling. He's not even trying to bully Damien anymore, not even giving in to his apparent lizard-brain need to talk his way through sex. He's just mystified, his mind churning over the idea with more and more enthusiasm, more fascination.
"S-so?" Damien stutters, and Mark feels the way his back arches, hears him gasp and lift his hips to take Mark again.
"I would say you need sex ed, but they don't exactly cover this anyway," Mark says.
Damien's heel knocks against his lower back in irritation. "Just fuck me, what the fuck are you talking about?"
Mark's head is swimming. Isn't he supposed to be in control? Isn't Damien supposed to just let Mark do whatever he wants and not dare ask for more? Isn't that the whole appeal of doing this with him? Some twisted sense of vengeance?
It doesn't matter, does it?
He holds Damien's hips over his as he fucks him, relishing the arch of Damien's back to accommodate. He leans over him, kisses him, doesn't draw back even when Damien lets out a surprised mmph? He just keeps thrusting, cock sliding perfect in and out. He rocks into him, their mouths mashed together; Damien's mouth drops open with a silenced moan, perfect for Mark's tongue to lick against his.
It's a steep hill, or like the climb of a rollercoaster; Mark can feel it building and building, so impossibly high that he can't fathom that he hasn't come yet. He pulls away from Damien only so he can bite his neck, and knows he's biting too hard, but then Damien's pained grunt is another notch higher, another inch closer to nirvana.
"Fuck, please," Damien mutters, quiet, but the rumble of it traveling through his throat and up against Mark's lips. Then he doesn't stop, and Mark pounds into him, listening to the faint mumble of, "Mark, fuck, fuck, 's good, 's too much but I'm – oh g-god, feels – please?"
Mark slams into him and Damien chokes. "You're so good," Mark whispers against his throat, feeling the way Damien's breath catches. "So good, Damien, I'm gonna come."
"I'm," Damien manages, but can't seem to hold the thought. "I – Mark."
He feels like he's drowning, like his lungs are about to explode, like he actually wants that kind of finality. "Gonna take it for me? Good, good boy."
Damien nods toward him mutely, body trembling, convulsing around him so intensely that it pushes Mark over the edge into a blissful, bright, impossible-perfect nothing.
The entire world is bright and hot and... Sweaty. The bright goes away, the reality of his dark bedroom coming back to him, but the sweat, regrettably, stays.
Mark pulls out of Damien and slumps over him, feeling his own come leaking out from the other man for a brief moment before Damien's hips finally slide back down onto the bed.
Resting his head on Damien's chest is not comfortable. It's too shaky, and the slick of their combined sweat is gross and kind of clammy. Damien's stomach is sticky with come, too, which is... Something. He's too tired to get horny about that right now, but he knows he will later.
Later, in general, is a horrifying concept. He desperately wants to linger in the afterglow, and wonders if the impulse to ruin things will come again. The one that tells him to smash the moment to pieces before it can even coalesce.
Damien's hand brushes through his hair.
He doesn't want to say anything to hurt Damien, right now. The whole good boy, thing is definitely a sex thing, but it hasn't worn off yet. He can't shake the idea, can't waste his energy drawing on all the buts about it.
They stay that way for what feels like a long time. Skin slowly cooling in the night air, breathing slowly evening out.
Mark pulls away first, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
Damien draws himself up to sit, and Mark can only look at him for a second before he has to look away. He has sex-hair and bite-marks and a sweat-sheen over his chest. But most of all he has this obliviousness to it all, and asks, blandly, "Can I shower before I go?"
"Yeah," Mark says. Then, "What?"
The bed creaks as Damien stands up. His movements are stiff. "I'm all gross."
On reflex, Mark says, "Well, you are you."
"Funny," Damien says, flatly.
He doesn't make to move. Waiting for permission, probably. Mark reaches out for his hand to stop him, anyway. "Are you okay?"
Damien turns to look at him, brow pinched. His eyes search Mark's face. "Yeah?" A beat of hesitation, then, "Are you?"
"Yeah?" Mark echoes. Damien's hand squeezes his.
"Okay. Then let me shower before I go."
Mark looks at him, neither of them breaking the shared gaze. "You're leaving?"
Damien looks confused, still. "Don't... You want me to?"
"Well," Mark says, because he doesn't want to answer. Instead he says, "It is like. Two in the morning, at least."
"Ah," Damien says, and shifts his weight.
"So," Mark says.
***
They shower together, mostly because Mark is pretty sure he can get away with fingering Damien a little bit to 'help him clean up,' and even if he's too tired to have full horny brain, he still has a little bit of horny brain.
He would feel skeevier about this, but Damien gives him a judgmental look and reminds him, "I already came twice, don't get too excited, here."
So at least he's not really tricking him. And he does get to finger him, and hear Damien breathe heavy, and feel him move back against his palm on weak legs. Until finally Damien lets out one deep, deep exhale and decides they're finished, swatting him away and setting him with that devastatingly knowing look.
Fine! Whatever, he's a big pervert. And Damien is fun to play with. Sue him.
He does feel a little bit bad when Damien almost faints while Mark is still scrubbing down his back for him. A bath probably would have been a better idea, even if it would have been cramped. He really can't blame Damien for being exhausted after all that.
He hurries to get them both clean, then ushers Damien back to the bedroom to put on some borrowed clothes, then stand around like an idiot while Mark changes the sheets.
"Is it," Damien ventures, watching from across the room. "Is it uh. Always like that?"
Mark snorts. "Don't get your hopes up."
"Wasn't," Damien says, so defensively that Mark knows his face is red without having to look.
Mark has slept with virgins before, but Damien is a different level of inexperienced. He doesn't even have the failings of public school sex ed to fall back on, and porn doesn't make for a good educator. If he even watches porn. Who fucking knows, with Damien.
Actually, Mark realizes, he can know, can't he? "Do you watch porn?"
"You can't just ask a man that," Damien says, sounding vaguely scandalized.
"So, yes."
"Well," Damien says, like there is some kind of grey-area to be explained. Then doesn't.
When he is not so exhausted, Mark thinks he might like to dig into whatever the fuck that means. But for now he gets the conversation back on track as he smooths out the fitted sheets. "Porn isn't realistic. It's like ninety percent fantasy bullshit, where everyone is too perfect and everyone is faking it."
Damien snorts. "I know that. I'm not asking about porn."
There's no point in making the blankets tidy right before sleep, but Mark still focuses intently on the task. He can't even fathom the wild expectations a man would have if his first time was getting fucked until he came twice, completely untouched. Should he feel good about himself for that? It isn't really registering.
"Right," Mark says, and doesn't love that his brain is already slotting what happened in with too-perfect fantasy sex. "It's just kind of... Same concept."
Damien goes quiet. Then hums with interest.
Somehow, it's easier to elaborate without looking at him. "Sex can be a lot of things. It can be a lot quicker, or more relaxing, or quiet, or gentle or - whatever. And not – uh. Not everyone can come just from penetration? Twice? And not everyone is... Verbal? You know? So you just... Shouldn't go into sex with other people and expect it to be the same as with anyone else. Everyone is different."
"I'm not going to have sex with other people," Damien says, a mix of confused and firm that makes Mark's chest hollow out. Oh, Christ. He's going to have to explain to Damien that this doesn't mean they're together now, and for all the deeply misguided things Damien has ever assumed about them, Mark can't even be annoyed at this one. It's just – sad.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, facing Damien, motioning for him to come closer. When Damien is standing between his spread knees, looking impassive, Mark gestures between the two of them.
"This is still nothing," he says. "We? Are still nothing."
Damien growls, but it isn't an argument that comes out of him, just a frustrated, "I know that. I'm just saying I don't like anyone else. I don't want anyone else."
"Very sweet."
"Fuck you," Damien says. After a beat, "Don't say it."
"Wasn't gonna."
He should have made Damien leave, after all. God, he's tired. He lays down, pulling Damien with him. It's easy to sidle up to his body, his back to Damien's chest, and after a second of pause, Damien drapes an arm over him.
Damien's breath is warm against the nape of his neck. In the dark, his voice drifts, "Do you sleep better, now?"
It's low and smooth in a way that Mark wishes didn't send a shiver up his spine. "I don't know. Usually."
"You seemed fine when you were taking a nap."
Mark doesn't tell him that a warm body helps. This already a mess. He sighs, and settles on saying, "I guess. I don't know."
He's never going to be able to see Damien without it escalating like this, and he had known that, that's exactly what the daydreams he'd tried to cut short were about. Then what? Some fooling around. Then what? Sex, obviously.
Then what? Then what? Now what?
"Talk," Mark commands, interrupting Damien yawning.
Damien's voice is heavy with sleep. Mark feels him shift to get more comfortable. Maybe to wake himself back up. "About what?"
"Whatever won't make me hate you."
"Ha," Damien says, because they both know it's an impossible task.
But he does.
Mark relaxes, listening to Damien's voice, and manages not to over-think. He feels Damien's lips move soft against the nape of his neck.
Damien talks about the bands that play where he works, and the godawful drinks he sometimes has to mix. And the feeling in his head of being able to see someone else's mind but not being able to touch it anymore, and the way Jamie always switches tasks with him when she thinks he'll prefer it that way, and deals with the customers that annoy him the most. He talks about the feeling of seeing someone in a crowd, and just wanting to watch them like a ghost, because that way you won't fuck it up.
And the feeling of telling someone to leave, and wanting them to come back. And the feeling of someone saying they never want to see him again, but coming back anyway. And the feeling of having someone wash his back and lend him clothes when he hadn't even thought to want them to do that in the first place.
He talks quietly about what wanting things feels like. His words slow, thoughts becoming less and less coherent. There are longer pauses between sentences, and less connected thoughts, or maybe Mark is just dozing off and missing things.
He talks about a lot of things, because he knows that Mark likes his voice. His knees bend behind Mark's, their bodies slotted together like puzzle pieces. His hand is warm, holding Mark's hip soothingly.
He talks about how completely unbelievable would be, to him, to ever get a phone call from someone who loves you. He is too tired to even sound longing when he adds: Someone who would just say it, and worry about you, and repeat it, and mean it. When he adds: Being someone good enough for that.
Somewhere in Mark's brain, there is a half-hearted protest that goes unsaid, that he buries away to be reckoned with later.