Chapter 1: California
Chapter Text
The guy liked to stick to walls. That much Marco had sussed out.
A few minutes — well, more like an hour — of casual observation over watery 3% beer did not a character profile make. He knew that. He also knew he’d been off the mark before and figured he might be again someday. Marco had just hoped it wouldn’t be so quick a turn around. He’d been hoping for at least a year, not the mere three months of summer vacation spent getting his ass handed to him in New York City.
He took a long drink from the palm-warm can in his hands. The other guy was drinking too, or he was holding the Smirnoff Ice bottle as an expert prop. Full lips pursed every time he raised the bottle to them, throat working steadily as he swallowed or faked swallowing. Dark hair caught the changing lights that decorated Tau Kappa Epsilon’s walls. The white shirt he wore seemed wicked out of place among all the mini skirts, crop tops, tanks, and free O-Week UCSC tee shirts.
Marco thought it suited him. The way he swayed with the music, lost for moments, then back aware of himself and moving again. The way he drifted along the edges of the room, the dancers, and chugged the rest of his drink. It all suited him.
Marco hoped he could be forgiven for wanting a closer look. The impulse wasn’t as new as it had been months before, and he had no fear in letting it guide him forward. New York had been a failure several times over, but Marco hadn’t packed his bags for hime without having learned anything about himself. Frankly, he’d learned a lot — that he was a mediocre songwriter but a good guitar player; that he was a fantastic kisser, and definitely bisexual.
He opted for the slow approach — getting himself another beer and peeling a few tipsy sorority girls off of his side as he wandered towards the far edge of the room. By the time he made it to the right spot, the other boy had vacated. Disappeared into thin air as far as Marco’s muddle sentences were concerned. He took a long drink and settled back against the wall, ready to pout a spell; then a flash of white caught his eye.
White shirt, shaggy haircut, a slim hoop curling around a single earlobe glinting in the dark of the house’s empty kitchen. A flash of a lighter, then a door pushed open, and the stranger disappeared again.
At least, this time, Marco had seen where he’d gone.
The night air was cool, a balm to the overheated skin of his face. Marco hadn’t felt the moment he’d gotten accustomed to the stuffy, humid air of bodies pressed close, but he felt every second it left him. His tee shirt was cold against his back as the sweat-soaked fabric chilled and dried. The same sensation cooled his temple, his hairline, put relief into each fresh, full breath.
The dark smelled like juniper, weed and tobacco, a bit of car exhaust in the back of his throat. The boy in the white shirt was bent forward against the deck railing, cigarette smoldering between his two fingers. His posture was lax, absent, unself-conscious in a way Marco didn’t quite understand the lines of. Every drag off the cigarette was precise, almost elegant in its languid back and forth. Every silvery exhale was smooth — not a hitch to be heard or seen in the thin stream of smoke coming from plush lips.
Practiced, Marco thought. Expert.
He’d had more practice with come-on’s and pick up lines since graduating high school, but Marco’s throat still felt close to closing up as he moved closer again. Moved in. Leaned against the railing himself. Dangled his beer can over the edge from his fingertips, bushes rustling in the breeze below. His elbow dug into the wood that was bound to give someone a splinter if it hadn’t already.
White Shirt took another drag. He blinked and exhaled, tipped his head back as though he was alone in his bedroom; as if he hadn’t noticed Marco.
“Hey,” he tested, voice straining to be louder than a whisper.
White Shirt glanced at him, cigarette poised in the air. His lips quirked and one of his brows arched imperiously. “You want a cigarette or the bathroom?”
Marco swallowed. “What?”
The stranger snorted unkindly. “You’re after something, right? So, is it one of my Marlboros or my hand down your pants in a bathroom?”
Marco startled, can slipping from his fingers to drop into the bushes below. He muttered swears under his breath as his face flamed. He wondered if White Shirt could hear his brain buzzing and whirring inside his skull. When he lifted his gaze back to him, the self-satisfied smugness Marco found there all pointed towards yes.
“If you want weed, you’ll have to come home with me and ask my roommate.” White Shirt gave him a scanning look as he sucked on the yellow filter like his life depended on it. “I’d say you don’t seem like the type. Straight-laced, goodie-two-shoes, probably had straight As and a bunch of awards. Bunch’a girlfriends too.” He laughed to himself, a funny rumble in his throat. “You’d probably dip into the Starbursts or somethin’—.”
“Only the pink ones,” Marco said, voice finally coming back to him. Stronger and steadier, thank fuck, he thought.
White Shirt scoffed. “No way.”
“Yes way.”
“There’s, like, only three in a pack and everyone likes the pink ones.”
Marco grinned, leaning closer. “You telling me you wouldn’t share?”
“Please.” The other boy rolled his eyes. “Not unless I really fucking wanted to and, tell you what.” He took another pull off the cigarette and exhaled, grinning sharply in Marco’s face. “I don’t want to share.”
“What about orange?” Marco’s stomach swooped. Maybe it was the smoke or the cold air, the cheap beer flush in his system, but he felt dizzy with each new curl of lust.
“You get red.” White Shirt stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe.
“Red?”
“Mhmm, tough shit. The worst flavor. Like cough syrup.” He reached for a bottle that had missed Marco’s notice and took a drink. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Marco cocked his head. “Which one? You had about six mixed up in there, man.”
Another eye roll, but they were starting to be endearing. Snarky and pointed, but Marco wanted to see him do it over and over. “I asked.” He took another long drink, licking away a stray droplet from the corner of his mouth. “What does a guy like you want from following a guy like me out here? A smoke, a blowjob, or some bad weed because Sash won’t give you the good stuff.”
“I’d settle for your name,” Marco lobbed back effortlessly, adding an easy shrug for an extra something. “Or the yellow Starburst. Whichever.”
White Shirt’s nose wrinkled in distaste around another mouthful of peach-lemonade. Marco could practically smell the sugar on him. “Yellow?”
Marco smirked. “Mhmm.”
“You’re batshit if you like yellow.”
“Maybe, but I’d still eat them. More pink ones for you.”
White Shirt set his bottle down. “Pink’s the best. No one likes yellow.”
Marco stuck out a hand, wishing he still had the safety of his beer can for the other. It felt lame just tucking it into his jeans pocket. “I’m Marco.”
The other boy didn’t take it, simply stared at it as though he was deciding whether or not it offended him. There was a glimmer of something in his features — something like interest or curiosity next to the dark circles under his eyes. He hummed. “Do you want me to say it’s my pleasure, or something?”
“I was hoping it might be,” Marco teased. “What do I call you though?”
“I never agreed to that.”
“But you’d give me weed for nothing?”
White Shirt half shrugged. He ran a loose hand through his hair, messing it up artfully — whether he knew it was artful or not. On closer inspection, the shirt wasn’t just any old plain button-down shirt, but a tuxedo shirt stripped of cufflinks, collar, and bowtie. Sleeves cuffed to the elbows. Buttons open to show a creamy column of neck, clavicle, and a sliver of pale sternum. Marco wondered if he was that pale all the way down, wondered if there were more beauty marks to match the one next to his mouth; wondered what all that skin tasted like, felt like, whether it was soft enough to give way under the tip of his tongue.
Marco exhaled. “Really?”
White Shirt hummed and shrugged again. “Weed’s not that personal.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Another arch of his brow. “What do you know?”
Marco straightened up, stretched, and grinned as he caught White Shirt giving him another scan. His shirt was stretched across his shoulders, riding up on his waist, and White Shirt was checking him out. There was heat shimmering in his eyes, a lick of lust that had to accompany the obvious bob in his throat as he swallowed.
“Pretty good with a guitar,” Marco said. “I help my little sister out with her math homework.”
“Your way around a weight machine,” the stranger mumbled. He hummed, glancing over the side of the railing. “Not how to hold onto your beer though.”
“I could hold onto you,” Marco replied, tucking his fingers into his back pockets. “Real good, real tight. Wanna see?”
The smirk softened, sobered. White Shirt lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply, tipping his head back as he drained the Smirnoff Ice. He weighed the bottle in his hand then set it precisely on the deck railing. “No thanks.”
Marco blinked, dread smacking him in the chest. “Oh. Um. I—.”
“I don’t want to be held,” White Shirt interrupted, tone ruthless. His handsome features taking on the edges of a sneer. “I don’t want to be sweet like your tenth grade girlfriend was, and I won’t put on cherry chapstick to play pretend like that.” He leaned in, chin tipped up to hold Marco’s gaze. “Your shoulders look like they could break me.”
Marco let out a shivering breath. “I—.”
“I want that.” White Shirt smiled — soft around the edges but vicious in the teeth. Ready to tear, or bite.
Or be bitten, Marco realized with a hot jolt.
“Unless you don’t like it rough, prom king. But I’m not going to make love with you under the bleachers—.”
“Is that a challenge?” Marco asked. It shut the other boy up, seemed to surprise him no matter how hard his expression wanted to school itself into nothingness. Marco licked his lips. “Because I don’t usually get to play that angle, but I’m not afraid of it if that’s what you’re getting at.”
White Shirt snickered. “You want a challenge? Marco?”
Marco’s breath left him at the sound of his own name. “If it is, I’ll take it.”
“Conditions?”
“Kiss me and keep saying my name right like that, baby.”
A bit of bravery expanded in his chest and Marco lifted a hand to the stranger’s hair. It was soft to the touch as he tucked the strands behind his ear, revealing the little silver hoop underneath. Marco tucked his head, on alert for any signs of discomfort, and traced the earring with his tongue. He felt a shiver run through the other boy.
“We’ll need a bed too, for all I want to do to you.”
White Shirt exhaled. “No floor for you, quarterback?”
“Midfielder, actually,” Marco breathed. He drew his nose alone the outer curve of the boy’s jaw. “And I’ll fuck you into my carpet, if that’s really what you want.”
“Fuck.”
“So long as it’s mine.” Marco felt White Shirt tip closer, his body unconsciously leaning in, pulling him off his center. “You’ve gotta give me something to call you. Anything, don’t care if it’s the real thing, I just—.”
“Eli,” came the rasped answer. The boy pulled back, pink in the cheeks and not looking the least self-conscious about it. “You can call me Eli.”
Marco hummed low in his throat, his hand skimming Eli’s side to find his waist. There was softness there — a gentle, tantalizing give under his fingertips, just under the last littlest rib. “There. Was that so hard?”
A blink later, fingers were tucking into Marco’s collar, tugging him close enough to smell the tobacco on Eli. The smirk was back. “More than you know.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And that’s all I’m telling.”
“Whatever you say. Eli.” Marco leaned close enough to brush their noses together. “Follow me inside?”
“I know a back way.”
“Show me?”
“Sure.”
Music thrummed through the side of the house as Eli led him back to the sidewalk, where streetlights cast a chemical-colored orange against the blue-black night. Eli waited for Marco to turn towards home, stepping in stride with him as they set off. The music faded away as they walked down the block, further away from the heat and crush and smell of spilled booze.
The light caught Eli fully a block from Marco’s apartment. The white tuxedo shirt glowed tangerine under the pulsating bulb, flickered off his lashes as he turned to look back at Marco. One step more, and he straddled the shadows again. The orange making him look sick, the darkness making him appear as vicious as might have liked. He slipped fully back into night when Marco reached for him.
Marco couldn’t be blamed for pushing him up against the light pole. For pressing close as he took and tasted in equal measure. The boy calling himself Eli gripped his shoulders and gave back as good as he was given. He was sturdy under the softness, threw his weight around, and pinned Marco with lust darkened eyes and the dramatic swoop of his cupid’s bow.
They pulled away, panting harshly into the cool air. The loudest sound on the street.
That same smug smirk curled back into place. “Public indecency charges a thing for you, Marco?”
Marco ground their hips together. “Only if you ask nicely.”
“I don’t get on my knees on a sidewalk.”
“Who said anything about you getting on your knees, Eli?” Marco replied, tongue touching his top teeth. He jerked his head to the right. “I’m the last one on the corner, Prince Charming.”
Eli rolled his eyes. “So?”
Marco grinned. “Race you there?”
He pulled away and darted for the end of the block. To his surprise, Eli was hot on his heels. Not in stride with him but not all that far behind either, even if he was winded when they reached the top of the stairs, clattering against the locked door. Marco opened his mouth — to ask are you alright, do you need a minute, can I help? — but Eli waved him off.
He could push, he was used to pushing in kindness, but he didn’t. He had gotten almost everything he’d gone after that night. He wasn’t about to ruin the blue-moon stroke of good luck he was being given.
So, Marco unlocked his door and stepped backwards over the threshold. He held a hand out for Eli, the stranger boy panting on his front porch at half past midnight. When his hand dropped into Marco’s, he pulled Eli inside after him.
Shut the door.
Lock it back.
Kissed him firmly up against it.
And, suddenly, Marco is on fire. Eli’s mouth is hot and insistent against his own, as soft as Marco had imagined. His tongue made quick work of Marco, brushing against the seam of his lips and delving inside. His hands cradled the back of his head as he leaned up against the door, nails scratching at Marco’s scalp and urging him on.
He had to break away to breathe. “Fuck.”
Eli laughed, then dove back in.
Marco met him halfway, the buzzing in his nerves reaching a fever pitch. He clutched at the back of Eli’s shirt, crowding him against the door further. The alcohol on his tongue is sickly and stringent, the sourness of tobacco cutting through it like vinegar through richness; salt and heat through sweet. Eli bit at his lip and Marco can’t conjure a single thought. His brain is blissfully blank. He’s painfully hard in his jeans, Eli pawing at his ass.
“I want,” Eli whispered against his mouth, lungs heaving for breath. “On the floor.”
Marco groaned, resting his forehead against Eli’s. “How on the floor?”
“Decisions, decisions,” Eli mused, a low laugh underneath. He leaned back in, nipping again at Marco’s lip. “God you taste good. You could bend me over right here.”
“You want that?”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe. Just yes.” Marco panted. He ground their hips together in slow, maddening circles, sucking on Eli’s earlobe just to feel the man’s body tremble. “Tell me. Tell me, baby. What do you want?”
“No, Jesus.” Eli hauled him back by the hair, flashing him a brittle look.
Marco tried to pretend the sharp tug didn’t do anything for him. It absolutely did. “What?”
“Not your baby,” Eli said. “Don’t go off script and think this is something it isn’t.”
He loosened his grip on Marco’s hair, arms dropping down to sling languidly around his neck. Draped gracefully, leaning up into Marco’s chest, hair falling in a flop over his forehead. Marco knew, if he let his hands drift a little lower, he could heft Eli’s full weight in his arms and carry him wherever. A dull voice of reason, tucked in the back of his brain, told him Eli wouldn’t like that unless he dropped him — and Marco wasn’t going to do that. Not unless asked, at least.
Eli pressed a gentler kiss to his mouth, pulling his attention back. “You said something about a bed, prom king?”
“Yeah,” Marco exhaled, nodded. “Just down the hall.”
“Take me there.” Eli pushed him backwards, following him with bedroom eyes. “Fuck me before the buzz wears off.”
“Why?”
“I’m better that way.” Eli pushed Marco again, snapping him out of the pause the words gave him. “Don’t think too deep on it. It’s not good for you.”
Marco could have sworn he was saying I’m not good for you. Despite his better angels, he let the concern side step him. He let it go. If he protested, he’d have to take himself into account, and Marco didn’t want to do that just yet. Not until California morning sunlight forced him to.
He took Eli by the hand and led him down the narrow hallway to the small bedroom he called his own. The offered scholarship paid for his classes. His parents’ diligent saving paid for his bed, his wifi, his groceries. His condoms, he realized, dragging Eli through the door. Not that he’d tell them that.
Eli caught him up in another kiss, hands now delving under his shirt. His fingers were cold, skimming the waistband of his jeans; the muscles of his abdomen and back. Marco slung an arm around his waist, tugging him close and keeping them balanced until the moment he was waiting for. The moment where he’d waltzed them backwards far enough. Where he could turn and shove Eli down onto the comforter.
He let out a squeak as his back hit the mattress, head bouncing. He came up huffy, pouting. “Fuck you.”
Marco shrugged out of his shirt, dug a bottle of lube and a condom from a drawer, then crawled up after him. He kicked off his shoes, tugging Eli’s white sneakers off his own feet. “I sure would like to.”
Eli let out a prim little hum and dropping back onto the bed. “Would you?” His fingers reached for the buttons of his shirt. “Let someone fuck you?”
“Hell yeah,” Marco answered. He liked the blush that bloomed in Eli’s cheeks, the look of surprise on his face.
“Versatile?”
“So much more than you know.” Marco winked.
He straddled Eli’s waist undoing the bottom buttons so that their hands met in the middle. He pushed the white fabric aside like unwrapping a Christmas gift, then ran feather-light fingers over the man’s torso. Strong, trim, pale with a healthy layer of weight on him and a curious knot of a scar resting on his right side. He reached to touch it, but Eli snatched his wrist away.
“No,” he croaked out. The muscle in his jaw flexed.
Marco nodded and pulled his hand away. “No. Got it.”
Eli scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Do you have any fight in you?”
“Sure, but not when it comes to shit like this.” Marco rose up on his knees, undoing his fly and beginning the somewhat arduous process of peeling his jeans from his legs. “You tell me no, the answer is no. Final answer. Okay?”
There was a flicker of something in Eli’s gaze — a cutting, aquiline hazel that Marco could imagine him wielding like a weapon — there and gone. “Okay.”
“Where can I touch you?”
“Anywhere. Just not there.”
“Got it.” Marco tipped over onto the bed to gracelessly shimmy out of his pants, but he was pinned by a broad hand to the center of his chest.
Suddenly Eli was overtop of him, feeling him, undressing him. Marco was dizzy with it. He knew it was painted all over his face. Where Eli had grimaced and snarked before, he let it go. His expression stayed focused, interested, even hungry once their jeans were abandoned to the floor and he was straddling Marco in a pair of grey boxer briefs.
Marco reached for his thighs, tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth as he took the other boy in from a new angle. Broad chest, toned arms and shoulders, a lean waist with a soft trail of blond hair down below the waistband ending in a decently sized bulge between his legs.
Eli smirked. “Like what you see?”
“You bet,” Marco drawled. “Wanna taste it.”
“You’re a fuckin’ surprise, you know that?” Eli leaned forward on hands and knees. His hair fell forward, framing his face, making him look almost boyish. Sweet, young, the things he had already put a halt on but even still couldn’t avoid. He dipped forward, kissing Marco open mouthed and slow.
“Mmm,” Marco moaned into the kiss. “Fuck, you taste good, how the fuck do you taste good?”
“You need better taste.” Eli swiveled his hips, then kissed him again. “I want you in me.”
“And in the morning?” Marco teased. “I’m kidding. I want that.”
He rolled his hips up, savoring the fresh press of them together. Eli let loose the first sound since they’d gotten into the place.A whine, high and faint, and Marco lapped it up. He reached for the elastic of his own briefs, arching up to get it over his hipbones.
Eli stabilized himself against Marco’s chest, nearly unseated. He snorted a laugh. “What about me?”
Marco laughed too. “What about you?”
“Since you’re such a gentleman, I thought you’d undress me yourself.” He tipped his head to the side. “You’re so—.”
“Hot?” Marco pushed himself up onto his palms. “Handsome? Adonis-like—?”
“Annoying.” Eli shoved him back down onto the bed.
A moment later, he was following him down and shoving his boxer-briefs down and away. Marco’s mouth watered at the sight of Eli’s cock, hard and weeping against his stomach.
Eli’s fingers came to rest under his chin, jerking his gaze back to Eli’s own. A goofy half-smirk on his face. “Really fucking annoying.”
“You and my sister could have a cool conversation.”
“Can’t believe I’m letting you fuck me.”
“You can always say no—.”
Eli tugged him close, until they were nose to nose. “No fucking way.”
Marco pressed him down against the bedspread and kissed him again — possessive, blood and nerves singing with the intensity. Eli squirmed as Marco tweaked a nipple, whining into the kiss. Marco wanted to taste more, taste all of him, but he could feel Eli’s patience shifting towards less than. He moved them, nudging Eli’s legs open and sitting between them. He fumbled for the lube bottle on the bed, blindly coating his fingers as the man under him fixed him with a smile that made Marco’s mouth go dry.
“Still good?” He asked quietly.
Eli let out a huff. “Stop stalling, I can take it— ah, yes.”
Marco watched him closely as he slid the first slick finger inside. Listened for the moment Eli’s breath hitched as he twisted it inside of him, starting into the usual in and out. When Eli began to grind back on his finger, Marco asked if he wanted the second. He was met with a derisive stare, a pointed huff, and shaky-voiced yes as Marco added another finger. Eli’s body loosens by millimeters; by inches and fractions until he’s limp and sprawled and moaning. Marco only does what he was taught — up to three, remember to spread them, tuck them and curl them just so to turn someone’s spine into a July 4th sparkler.
Eli clutched at his arm as he slid inside, pink mouth open and panting. His head and neck arched as much as the rest, his legs pulling up to wrap around him. Gone was the snarkiness, the sarcasm, the insincerity. Whatever mask the other boy slotted neatly over his features was peeling back with each thrust.
“Fuck,” he rasped. “Fucking fuck— oh my god.”
“Good?” Marco panted, keeping a steady rhythm as best he could. The way Eli was clenching around him, he was hoping he wouldn’t throughly embarrass himself by spilling into the condom after less than five minutes.
The man under him nodded, hair dragging into disarray on the comforter. Pink invaded his cheeks and neck, sweat sheening on his skin in the darkness. Marco smiled at the view, held his hips, and kept at it.
“There you go,” he murmured. “So good for me, Eli. Y’look so good, s’good—.”
“Elliot.”
Marco captured his mouth again. “What?”
“My name,” he keened. His eyelids drooped, their hazel centers hazy with lust and a fresh rawness that Marco wanted to soothe over. “Elliot. Call me Elliot.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you—.” Marco kissed him again. His stomach tightened; their hazel centers knot of desire sitting between his hipbones at the fraying point. “Elliot.”
The boy bared his throat, clutched harder— hard enough to break skin on his blunt fingernails.
“S’good Elliot, so so good.”
Only seconds passed before Marco’s body shuddered and thrust on deep one more time — coming, groaning, with his head resting in the center of Elliot’s chest. Decorating the pale skin with kitten licks, Marco reached between them and took Elliot’s cock in hand, precise smoothing the friction of his palm. Two, four, eight thrusts later, Elliot’s body tightened, arched, and he spilled over Marco’s still-moving hand.
Marco pulled out gingerly, careful not to hurt. If Elliot — Eli, White Shirt, the stranger with the cigarette and the earring — had been languid before, he was nearly useless now. All the tension had left him and he lay boneless on Marco’s bed; blinks slower and longer, come cooling on his stomach. The street lights cast shafts of thin orange light into the room, making them glow again. Casting Elliot in the amber tint of a Renaissance painting; like one of the saints he’d seen in the Met that summer, serpentine and twisted, shadows and light making the man as he breathed heavily. Tipping into sleep, and Marco had no desire to wake him.
Marco kissed his cheek. “Gonna clean us up, okay?”
Elliot grumbled, stretching with closed eyes. “Sure, sure.”
Elliot’s hand drifted lower on his torso. Marco lifted it away just as his fingertips brushed the puddle of release. It earned him a wide-eyed, moth like stare.
“What?”
“Don’t want you to stick—.”
“It’s jus’ a little come,” Elliot said, words muddled with sleep. He pulled his hand free, looking down himself as he dipped his fingers in again. “And. It’s mine. So.” He lifted his coated fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean.
Marco sucked in a breath. “Holy shit.”
Elliot smirked, then licked again. “You could kiss me. Taste for yourself.”
“That’s so reckless,” Marco exhaled.
“I’ve done riskier.” Eli dropped the hand next to his head and yawned. He stared up at Marco. “I should go.”
“Only if you want,” Marco replied. “But let me get a wash cloth or something first.”
Elliot half shrugged, blinks slowing again. Yawning again. “Only if you want to.”
Marco did want to. He wanted to do everything exactly right, as if he had anything to prove. He knew he didn’t. He knew it was all lingering something from months ago, but he couldn’t help it. The way Elliot had gasped out his name, clutched his arm and told him what he’d held back not too long before, did something to his heads. Rattled around his insides as he dampened a wash cloth in the sink and walked back across the hall to his bedroom.
Elliot was asleep by the time he returned, breaths heavy and whole-body. His head was turned to the side, mouth just parted against the blue fabric. Marco was careful not to jostle the bed, not to wake him as he swiped the cloth over his skin. He didn’t. He mumbled and squirmed a bit, but didn’t come back up to the surface. Out cold, likely to sleep through the night. If Elliot stayed, Marco was quite alright with that.
Pulling the other half of the comforter up and over them, Marco settled down next to the other boy. He listened to Elliot’s breaths and felt his own match them. A kernel of something new nestled under his skin. Something light, something hopeful, something straddling the line between flirtation and more. That wasn’t anyone’s problem but Marco’s. Not that anyone else needed to know.
Chapter 2: From Zero
Notes:
Thank you all for the unexpectedly kind and enthusiastic reception. I'm having fun playing with perspectives in this fic, so know that it might shift from character to character, often for no other reason than "this felt right to write from their perspective".
thank you again, enjoy this next bit :)
xoxo,
Orchid
Chapter Text
The first few blinks didn’t tell Elliot where he was. Only when he shifted his body did he remember.
Tau Kappa party Sasha had rolled her eyes at, one drink, a smoke break, and a flirty jock type Elliot was half convinced was a hallucination. Then he crowded him against a door, shoved him down onto a bed, and watched rapturous as Elliot licked his own fingers clean.
He turned his head, and there he was. Face slack in sleep, dark lashes fanned against brown skin, black curls wrecked from Elliot’s fingers and maybe the comforter they were sleeping on.
Elliot stared at him for a little, waiting for the signs of him — Marco — rousing. He didn’t. His breathing stayed heavy against the navy covers. He was… something. Pretty felt too shallow, and handsome wasn’t quite enough. Gorgeous or beautiful felt too big for a one night stand.
His grandmother, once upon a time, had called him striking. Becky too. He wasn’t sure it was a compliment.
Elliot turned back to stare at the ceiling. Early morning shadows littered the white paint, scattering a weird halo around the unmoving ceiling fan. He blinked his eyes closed and breathed deeply, slowly. Felt his chest rise and fall. The restlessness in his calves and ankles. Where the mattress dipped and pressed against his shoulders, his ass, his thighs. The smell of the comforter — worn fabric, faint detergent, skin warmth, and the faded notes of his own cologne.
Marco — just there. Still sleeping, still peaceful.
He was too good-looking to be picking up someone like Elliot at a party. A frat party, so full of people that it wasn’t just a noise complaint but a structural hazard. But he honed in on Elliot in that crowded living room.
Pretty sorority sisters flirting their hardest at him, a few others trying to drag him onto the dance floor, get him a fresh drink, but he followed Elliot out onto the empty back deck.
Man was cut like a demigod and knew what to do with his hands. He smiled like he was the leading man in a Hallmark movie, was pure boyfriend material looking to pull out all the stops.
Elliot didn’t have the patience for that. He didn’t even know where his phone was.
He was careful sliding out from under the bedding. Not out of any sense of altruism — Elliot was too much of a narcissist to play in that sandbox. No, he just didn’t want to have to talk to the sleeping man. If Marco stayed asleep, Elliot wouldn’t have to smile nice and let him down easy. He would just sneak out. If he was nicer, he’d leave a note, but Elliot wasn’t all that nice — at least, not instinctively.
He found his jeans and boxers from the night before, snagged a striped shirt draped over the back of a chair. He held his shoes by two fingers as he backed out of the room. He found the bathroom, dressed in the kitchen, heated a measuring cup of water in the microwave for the instant coffee packets he found. There were real dishes in the cabinets. The food looked healthier than any college student had any right to have, not just chips and soda and ramen packets.
For a fleeting moment, Elliot thought about his parents’ grapefruit and oranges at breakfast. The Italian espresso machine hissing in the corner. A bowl of fruit on the concrete island, a cutting board with bagels standing by. Boxes of cereal tucked into the pantry in the hopes that he might eat something else. Sometimes Elliot did, just to humor them; most of the time he’d walk out the door with the box of Special K and headphones shoved into his ears.
The microwave beeped and sent him back down to earth. He stopped it and glanced towards the doorway into the hall. He held his breath and listened — for a door, for footsteps, for a creaking floorboard, anything. Nothing caught his attention, so he turned back to the coffee crystals and the mug he was debating walking off with, same as the shirt.
He dug his phone out of his pocket, sipping as he ran through the text messages Sasha had sent him the night before.
You coming home tonight?
I’m guessing no.
Joke’s on you. You never turned off your FMF. I see you.
Elliot typed back an answer — awake, safe, I’m turning it off ASAP — then pocketed the device. She worried, but would admit it. He worried, but would never tell a soul. They had turned on Find My Friends the moment they hit the California border. As a precaution. He didn’t know about Sasha, but Elliot hadn’t turned his off for a reason. He wasn’t planning on it any time soon. Not that he needed to know that.
Another buzz in his pocket — I hope it was good cuz this is the 4th time I’m opening for you. ETA.
Elliot rolled his eyes. I’ll be there. Walk’s like 6 min.
He drained the last of the weak, grainy coffee and set the mug in the sink. He pulled out a chair long enough to tie his shoes, then made for the door. He paused just long enough to make sure he had everything — key loop, phone, headphones in snarl — in his pockets. It was his plan’s undoing.
“Hey.” Marco stood in the hall a few feet behind him. A sweatshirt was shoved over his head, but the rest of him was navy boxer briefs and long legs. He smiled sleepily. “Going already?”
Elliot smiled tightly. Ungenerously maybe, but he wasn’t in the business of caring. “Yeah.”
“What happened to in the morning?” Marco moved closer, stretching and ruffling the hair on the back of his head. Soft, endearing, boyish.
“I have work. I’m opening,” Elliot said, unmoving even though everything about a second round called to him. It was too close, too tangled up, and Sasha would hook one of her nails through his right nostril if he left her hanging on a Saturday morning after Add/Drop had ended. He faked a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
“Another time.”
“Probably not.”
Marco tipped his head. He was close enough to touch now. “Why not?”
“I don’t do seconds,” Elliot said with an exhale and half-assed shrug. “And I’m not as great as you think.”
Marco snorted. “Oh, and I am, or something?”
“Definitely.”
“Can I have your number?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Marco chewed his lip a moment. “Well. I—, you know. I’ll see you around?”
Elliot smirked. “Not likely.” For a moment, he took pity on Marco and his wide eyed, put out look about him. Boy probably hadn’t ever been turned down in his life. There was a first time for everything. Still, Elliot leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I had fun. But I’m not looking for anything more than that.”
“Got it.” Marco turned his face just close enough to press a kiss to his temple. Elliot grit his back teeth and didn’t at all think it felt nice — a harder sort of lie. “I had fun too.”
A moment later, Marco released him and stepped back. Elliot wavered a moment before turning and walking towards the door. He felt the ties snap. The connection Marco was clearly angling for cut and lost. When his shoes touched the porch, Elliot felt like he could breathe a little better; his head a little clearer.
“Elliot.”
Elliot glanced back, an eyebrow arched. Impatience crawled up his throat.
Marco stood in the doorway and pointed at his chest. “That’s my shirt.”
“Okay.” He laid on the sarcasm as thick as he could without real coffee in his system.
“Am I ever gonna get it back?” Marco smirked around the question.
Elliot shrugged and sauntered forwards again. Hands in his front pockets, he stopped in front of Marco leaning in the doorway, tilting his face up like he wanted another kiss. He did, and he didn’t, but he wouldn’t admit to either. He just smiled. “Well. If we ever run into each other again, you can have it back.”
“Or we could jus—.”
“I’ve got work.” Elliot kissed the underside of his jaw. He wanted to bite and leave bruise. He pulled away again with a tilted sort of smile. “See you around, prom king.”
“Get home safe, Elliot.”
Of course Marco was a get home safe kind of person. Elliot tromped down the stairs to the sidewalk below, turning at the corner before crossing the street a few houses past the one he’d spent the night in. Marco would have gone inside, and Elliot wasn’t about to start divulging secrets. Man didn’t need to know where he lived, where he worked, that those two places were in the same building, or that they were closer than Marco could imagine.
Santa Cruz hadn’t been the plan. California hadn’t been either. Elliot thought that implied he and Sasha had had any semblance of a plan past getting out of Crystal Valley.
They’d gotten to Cottonwood first; gotten gas station coffee, a box of Pop Tarts, and then gotten out of Arizona. Sasha bought a burner phone somewhere outside Glendale and fell asleep near San Tan Valley. Elliot took over driving somewhere around three in the morning, still riding the adrenaline coursing his system and inexplicably craving a mint milkshake.
They bought a map, water, and Flamin’ Hot Cheetos in Yuma, squinting in the sunlight as Elliot tried to make sense of where they were. Whenever they stopped, people assumed they were a couple or he was paying by the hour. Only once had he started to protest, but Sasha had stomped on his foot and dragged him to the room. He’d slept in the bathtub that night. He claimed it was his choice. It absolutely had not been. He kept his mouth shut after that.
Sasha texted people who mattered when they reached San Diego — her uncle, his mother, her boyfriend. How she had their phone numbers in her brain, Elliot didn’t know and didn’t ask. He couldn’t have said what his home phone number was with a gun pressed to his temple.
Their place was a hop, skip, and a jump from Marco’s to the bookshop. A little, old-fashioned sort of place called Three Stars that hadn’t been in their plan either. It was nestled into the first floor of a bungalow, the second floor an apartment that came with the job. The people who owned the store had lived above it when they were first married. Usually it went to college students now that their own kids were grown and elsewhere.
Sasha did most of the talking during the interview. Elliot had said they were brother and sister, liked that they didn’t immediately question it. They hadn’t even blinked. Just asked if they had any experience in retail. Sasha did; she playfully nudged Elliot and said he spent time in their school library.
The nap room was through the library and he knew what order the alphabet went in, Elliot had thought. Close enough.
They’d been there for almost two years with no complaints. Neither of them was fool enough to think it could hold forever. It would be nice while it lasted though — quiet street, across from a surf shop and down from two coffee shops, a decent taco truck around the corner on the next block.
“Where’ve you been?” Sasha was already at the counter, coffee cup cradled in her hands as she leaned against the counters. A collection of rings — her own, a few of Becky’s, some of Elliot’s old ones bent up to fit — littered her slim fingers, clinking comfortingly against the ceramic.
“Out.” Elliot walked slowly towards the back staircase up to their shared apartment. She knew he had been at the party the night before. She snorted at the idea of going, but still told him to be careful.
“No shit. Your shirt gave it away.” Sasha smirked, stare stripping him too bare for nine in the morning. “Got laid?”
“Got railed,” Elliot answered, grinning like a fiend at her. He plucked the collar of the stolen shirt. “It was so good, I took a momento.”
Sasha stared at him. “Serial killers take momentos.”
Elliot leaned against the counter. “What about arsonists?”
“Odds are not in your favor,” Sasha said. “Wanna ask the magic eight ball?” She pressed a few buttons on the register, fiddled with the receipt paper roll for a moment while taking a long drink. “So.”
“So,” Elliot repeated.
“It was good?”
“Yeah.”
“He or she?”
“He. This time.”
Sasha’s nose wrinkled. “Please tell me you didn’t go for another one of those dicks from Sig-Mu again.”
“No,” Elliot answered, the well no duh evident in the tone alone. “And I don’t know anything about him.”
“What do you know?” She took another drink, holding onto the mug so he wouldn’t take it. She drank her’s with more sugar than he did. Elliot took his with creamer and saved the sugar for his cereal, his candy drawer; the subtle jolt of something that kept the buzz in his head satisfied, at least for an hour.
Elliot let his head drop forward, hanging between his shoulders. He closed his eyes when he felt Sasha’s nails scratch along the back of his head. “He lives on Locust, doesn’t smoke. Athletic, like. Totally built.”
“How about a name?”
“Marco.”
“Marco..?”
“Didn’t get a last name, and I didn’t tell him mine either.” Elliot lifted his head. “It’s better that way.”
Sasha hummed. “And you stole his shirt.”
“He let me walk out with it on.” Elliot grinned.
“No number?”
“Nope.”
Sasha sighed and shook her head. “You gotta get over that, El.”
“Get over what?” Elliot squinted at her like he didn’t know; like they hadn’t had this conversation before. “What do I have to get over?”
“You know what I mean—.”“Remind me.”
Sasha sighed. She set her cup down, risking his stealing it to roll her fingernails along the counter. She pressed her lips together as she thought, chose her words. “It’s been two years. You know that right?”
“Two years, eighteen days, and fifteen hours,” Elliot replied. “But who’s counting?”
“Little shit.” Sasha tapped a quick staccato with her pointer finger, chewing into her cheek. “It’s okay. To exist in the world. Remember, like we talked about?”
Elliot sucked in a breath. “I remember an overpriced therapist telling me I was too sociopathic to function. And, oh—. Jones. Jones called me a narcissist.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But, what they and maybe you, don’t seem to get is that I’m actually being really nice, leaving them hanging,” Elliot drummed his hands on the wood and pushed himself upright again. “Because I’m kind of a shit human, you know. And that’s so hard for me to admit because I’m so self-absorbed and everything I do I think is great.” He walked around the counter to lean next to her, every word dripping with more sarcasm than they should be able to hold. “So, I’m saving them the trouble of being fucked up about me being fucked up later, okay?”
“Oh yes, so kind of you.”
“Thank you. I can be merciful when I want to.”
“I’m telling your next shrink you have a god complex.”
“God, do it. I’ve always wanted to pretend I was a prophet, or maybe an angel. What sort of meds to they give for that any way?” Elliot nudged her shoulder. “Think any of them are the good stuff?”
Sasha shook her head a bit, ignoring his bullshit. “It’s okay to let people care about you. For the thousandth time, that’s not bad to.”
Elliot scoffed. “You realize who you’re talking to, right?”
“Elliot.” Sasha gave him a hard look.
“I let people care about me,” Elliot said innocently. “I let you care about me, Sash, and you stabbed me—.”
“It was a fake out—.”
“You still pretended and I still had a scratch.” Elliot made a face and pointed to his shoulder. “So, like, you should say sorry maybe. Some day.”
Sasha rolled her eyes and shoved him towards the back stairs. “Go take a shower. I’m done with you. You reek of frat party.”
“Maybe I like it that way,” Elliot snarked, laughing. He walked backwards towards the door. “Maybe this is me now, Sash. Frat boy pretender, searching out all of Greek Life’s free beer and Oedipal complexes.”
“Then you can fuck off and find another apartment,” she deadpanned.
“But you’d miss me—.”
“I’d miss your sugar stash,” Sasha interrupted with a jab of her fingers in the air. “And that’s. All.”
Elliot just laughed. She was only about half kidding, but he was fully fucking with her. Frat psychoanalysis held no interest to him.
“Not your stupid shirts. Not your stupid voice. Not your stupid sad bastard music,” Sasha continued, drumming her nails on the counter. They were freshly done, painted bright blues with flashing silver chains and gems. “And definitely not the fact that you can’t cook to save your life.”
“You’d miss my money,” Elliot lobbed back with a grin.
Sasha’s expression softened just enough to give her away. “I’d miss you telling me how much I’d miss your parents’ money. When we haven’t used any of it in months.”
“Years.”
“See.” Sasha stifled a laugh. “What do I need you for?”
Elliot’s back hit the wall, but he was still grinning. “Entertainment value.”
Sasha shook her head, swallowing a grin. “Go fucking shower. You’re gonna scare off the customers.”
“Yes mom.” Elliot stuck his tongue out and turned on his heel.
The long-suffering groan that echoed up the stairs behind him was enough to make him laugh with his whole chest. He was still laughing as he let himself into their shared apartment, stripped out of his clothes in his small bedroom, stepped into the bathroom with three doors. He locked two, kept the one to his room cracked, and turned on the water.
They stayed in seedy motels and ate a tired chrome-edged diners all along Route 8. Places Elliot could safely say he’d never seen outside of television, but he kept his mouthiness to the inside of their borrowed car. The term borrowed used extremely loosely. He had loaded up his coffee with sugar packets and creamer to combat the buzz in his head, ate whatever Sasha ordered for them, and took out cash on Becky’s debit card whenever they needed it.
They’d got gone. Been gone. For almost two years, they’d been in one place, feeling more secure by the month. Sasha seemed perfectly at ease, but still couldn’t sleep some nights. Same as him. They still shared dreams. Elliot still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, followed, tracked down. Sasha had long since given up trying to convince him otherwise, but she still sat up with him eating Cookie Crisp from the box when it was too much.
He ran the water hot, holding himself under the spray until it made his skin itch. He turned the heat down and tipped his head back under the water. It ran over his eyes and mouth, into his ears, and down his neck.
He held his breath as the air shifted. Not from steam or the AC kicking on. Not from Sasha coming up the stairs or a window being open. Still air suddenly vibrating on another note.
Something else, he thought. Someone else.
She was closest to him in the shower. Elliot didn’t think too closely about why that was. He didn’t want to dip his face back under the surface of the very particular kind of haunting his friend spent her days in. He’d done it before, and the view wasn’t pretty. They’d reached an equilibrium with whatever it was that remained of his sister.
He washed himself, ignoring her. Spread soap over all the parts of him that had been kissed and touched and scratched up the night before. There was a mark on his collarbone, a bruise turning yellow just under the surface. Elliot pressed his fingers to it as he stared at the pink 80s tile, just to feel it smart.
He needed coffee.
He needed something to eat.
He needed the flickering shadow in the corner of his periphery to stop moving.
Elliot shut the water off, the pipes thudded with the abruptness of it. He stood in the bathtub for a long moment, letting the last of the spray trickle down his back, drip from his jaw and hair. Little hollow splashes the sounded louder than a canon in the small, silent bathroom. The shadow flickered as he reached out for his towel — a trick of the light, a figment of low blood sugar, something else entirely. He didn’t know.
“You know,” Elliot whispered as he wrapped a towel around his waist. “Mom didn’t ever do the whole siblings sharing a bath thing when we were babies.” He shook his hair out and stepped onto the bath mat. “Don’t know why that’s gone out the window now.”
He stood at the sink and pushed the hair off his face. He felt the air shift as he ran his razor over his face. A line was drawn across his bare shoulders as he brushed his teeth. The toilet seat creaked as he was prodding at the dark circles under his eyes and he glanced over.
It’s a good idea to talk to them, a tour guide at the Whaley House had told Sasha earnestly. If they don’t mean to scare you, and you tell them, they’ll back off.
And if they do? Sasha had asked. The guide had said it might not make a difference.
And if there’s nothing there? Elliot had asked, deadpan.
Then maybe it’ll make you feel better about whatever it is you’re hearing.
Elliot had laughed himself gasping. Sasha’s mouth had pinched in the corner, a clear sign she wasn’t buying it. It had rolled off her shoulders, but the memory had followed Elliot all the way up the coast.
“There’s only one bathroom, Becks,” he sighed. “If I need to take a piss, you’re going to have to leave me alone, you know that?”
No sound. The shadow on the floor stayed the same.
“Fine then. Be that way.” Elliot turned back to his reflection. “If you’re looking for gossip, I’ll tell you later. Once I, you know, have fucking underwear on.”
Still no movement. Stubborn in life, stubborn in death.
Elliot exhaled. He turned fully towards the toilet. There was nothing there that he could see, but something told him his sister was right there. Waiting, crosslegged, like she used to sit in the backseat of the car. “I’ll tell you when Sasha goes on lunch break, okay? He was cute and way too nice for me. Is that good enough for now?”
Elliot counted to five, then the same creaking sound rose again in the small bathroom. Right alongside the echo of water droplets hitting the bathtub. A breeze past his arm, the urge to grit his teeth, and then the sensation was gone.
“Good talk, sis,” he whispered. Nothing answered back.
They talked more now that she was three years dead than they had in the last two years of her life.
Chapter 3
Notes:
this story is weird and ever evolving and purely experimental. we are writing by the seat of our pants here, y'all. so thanks for hanging along for the ride ;)
xoxo, Orchid
Chapter Text
It was his fault for not getting all his books at once. Marco was usually in better habits, but the first few weeks of classes has thrown him for a loop. It was his choice to take 18 credit hours and volunteer to be a peer tutor in his first semester.
The American literature class he’d signed up for became the last on his list. Then he was sitting in his Thursday afternoon recitation seminar without the book he was supposed to be three chapters into, beet red with embarrassment under the scrutiny. Marco’s grades were decent but he knew the impression he gave off.
Prom king jock type had started echoing in his head. He knew exactly whose voice it was curling around the fricatives and plosives.
He’d kept an eye out for the gallows-eyed boy with the kissable lips he’d been daydreaming about since they parted company. Elliot, no last name, and Marco kicked himself for not pushing harder for a number, a name, something identifiable. He’d asked around campus, scrolled through Instagram idly when he was cooking dinner, trying in vain to find the right person. Marco had never felt more like the prince in Cinderella — if Cinderella was a smart-mouthed boy whose tongue should have been classified as a weapon.
No one knew him. No one had heard of him. Marco had done a double take in the coffee shop line, narrowly avoiding yet more mortification when he saw the blonde hair instead of mousy brown, blue eyes instead of hazel.
His TA had suggested Three Stars for books. The campus bookstore was always overpriced and, according to her, they would trade for or buy back books when he was done with them.
Marco needed to get off campus. That was the long and the short of it. He needed a break from the college bubble, up in the hills, and a trip into town was a perfect ready excuse. A charming little store set up in an old house, with a creaky front porch and a bell above the front door would cure what ailed him.
“Out in a sec!” A voice called from somewhere deeper in the shop.
Maybe a back room, Marco couldn’t have guess. The unknowing didn’t keep him from crossing the threshold and moving immediately towards a tall shelf labeled literary fiction. Surely that would be where Allende and Morrison would be. He shuffled around, peering at the shelves, crouching low when the alphabetical order forced him to. Marco found the two he desperately needed, then double checked his list for what he was still missing. He was still staring at it as he walked towards the counter near the door, tripping over invisible shoe laces when he looked up.
“Oh.” A smile broke out across his face. “Hey there.”
Elliot leaned over the counter, hair flopping into his eyes and expression thoroughly bored. The shirt he wore looked very familiar to Marco. But Marco, it seemed, didn’t look familiar to him. “Hi.”
Marco approached the counter, setting his books on the counter. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where’ve you been?”
Elliot stared down at the books. “Where’ve you been looking?”
“Around campus,” Marco said, stumbling a bit at the flatness of the other boy’s tone. The night they’d been tangled up, he’d been a live wire; bright and grinning, licking his lips hungrily. He was flat now. Emotionless, or maybe just sober. “Classes. You know?”
“That was your first mistake.”
“Huh?” Marco blinked.
“That was your mistake.” Elliot pushed himself up, yanking a drawer open. A moment later, he was unwrapping a lollipop and jamming it into his mouth. “I’m not a student.” He swirled his tongue around the candy, greenish eyes lifting to Marco again. There was a bit more life in them now. “Never have been.”
“Oh. Sorry. I just—.”
“Assumed because I was at a college party and I’m about your age that I’m just like you, and just like them,” Elliot drawled. “I’m not.”
“I can tell.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah.” Marco swallowed and tested. “Because you’ve been stuck in my head for two goddamn weeks. None of them have been.” He leaned in and jumped. “You have been. I’ve been keeping my eyes out for you every which way—.”
“You just wanted your shirt back.” Elliot took the white stick and rolled it between his two fingers. A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Right, prom king?”
Marco grinned. “Can’t say I did.”
“Bullshit.” Elliot swabbed a hand over his forehead. Next second, he was lifting the Allende and glancing at the back of it. “Found everything?” He glanced at Marco. “I’m supposed to ask that.”
“Mostly.”
“What are you missing?”
“Do you care?”
“Maybe.” Elliot exhaled. The book tipped off his fingers and back into the pile. “Try me.”
Marco half-shrugged. “Fences. August Wilson. I need it for a class.”
Elliot arched a brow. “Isn’t there a bookstore at the school?”
“Expensive.”
“Wouldn’t know.” Elliot pointed off in another direction. “It’s a play. Over there. There’s two copies left.”
Marco stood quietly, studying his face. Elliot stared back, but he wasn’t doing the same to Marco. He was just waiting. Midday light filtering in through the windows, giving him a softness he didn’t readily have on him. “What if I don’t give a shit about the play?”
Another eyebrow.
“I don’t need it for another two months,” Marco said. “Could always come back and get it when I do.”
A smirk pulled at Elliot’s mouth. “I’ll make sure we’re sold out by then.”
“I hope you do.” Marco leaned forward onto the counter. He tipped his chin to look up into Elliot’s face. Someone told him once it was his best look, doe eyed and come hither all at once. “Another reason to come back and see you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
“I’ll quit.”
“Sure.” Marco chuckled. He rested a hand on the stack. “Just these ones.”
Elliot snorted. “Just this?”
Marco watched him pluck up a scanner gun. “Yep.”
“Nothing else?”
“Are you offering?” Marco asked, heart fluttering with a strange kind of hope. “Because I’d take your number if you are.”
Elliot scanned the first barcode and flashed a short, tight smile. “You just want your shirt back.”
“And I still have yours.” Marco watched him scan the second book. “Can’t say I’ve worn yours as much as you might be wearing mine though. Maybe I don’t want to take it away from you.”
Elliot tucked the scanner away, then dropped forward onto his forearms, tip of his tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I just want you to take it off me, prom king.”
“Lots of maybes,” Marco whispered. “Yes or no?”
“Gimme your number, and…” Elliot drifted off, expression telling nothing. “Maybe?”
Marco had never taken a pen so fast in all his life. He scribbled down his number with his name and all but bounced his way back to his car.
Elliot could think of ten things that tasted better, but none of them were in his culinary repertoire. It was stupidly simple — that stupidly blue box of little noodles and powdery orange cheese in a packet. He didn’t make complex dishes, didn’t know combinations for the herbs and spices Sasha had begun to collect in a cabinet. He hadn’t assembled a glossary of anything food related beyond best sugar-bomb cereals or flavors of Pop Tarts; strains of weed was more his area. Elliot could, however, make macaroni and cheese out of a box.
Sasha told him once that rich is a full pantry Lefevre. It was after she had clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes at him in a motel room.
He’d scoffed at her, lobbing a pack of gum at her head and was disappointed when she caught it. They’d wandered around the next day, Elliot’s brain turning over the words in his head to the tune of sloshing waves on Coronado Island.
She had also told him you eat like shit.
Elliot hadn’t disagreed on that point. He did, he knew it, but the only other person left to care was his mom and she wasn’t ever close by. So, he shrugged the comment off and ate what she put in front of him, which usually wasn’t hard.
“How’s it going in here?” Sasha leaned against the counter by the sink, setting sun catching the curve of her face. Her curls lay down her back, willowy limbs folded over her chest as she watched him carefully.
“One little on-fire dish towel two years ago and I’ve got adult supervision,” Elliot teased, ripping open the box. “I can literally do one thing, Sash. I can do this one thing.”
“I know, I know. Just checking in.”
When they’d first gotten into the apartment, they agreed to divide responsibilities as much as possible. He’d let it slack first, proving he couldn’t do more than pour cereal or microwave something. Sasha wasn’t much better, but she copied out recipes from the books in the store when traffic was low and bought a nice set of pans from a Home Goods in a strip mall. Basic things mostly — baked chicken, yellow rice from crinkly metallic bag, frozen vegetables that turned into something like Chinese takeout; once a pretty impressive twisted bread star made with spaghetti sauce, shredded cheese, and crescent rolls out of a canister that popped and made him jump.
In exchange, Elliot had taken every handwritten grocery list she gave him to the store. He eventually learned not to deviate from the list, to not leave anything behind because he didn’t feel like picking it up. Elliot learned, he was trainable. The description made him out to be equivalent to golden retriever. However true, and however much he missed the days of lawless purchases; the crinkle in Sasha’s forehead when he shoved a treat into her hands that she wanted but hadn’t accounted for.
The water was bubbling underneath the lid, steam spurting out the sides. He lifted it, dumped in the pasta, the packet of cheese dust laying on the countertop next to him. He glanced at the clock, silently counting forward eight minutes, and giving the pasta one last stir. Elliot had learned how to balance equations and do stoichiometry while high off his ass; Kraft macaroni and cheese was nothing.
“Uh-huh. Sure you are.”
“I’m worried about our security deposit. Sue me.”
“Arthur didn’t make us pay a security deposit.”
“He would if we burned down the goddamned store.” There was a flicker of a smirk; a joke only Sasha could make without lighting up his ire like a strike-anywhere match. She lifted a hand, a crumpled piece of paper pinched between thumb and forefinger. “You forgot something at the register.”
Elliot kept his face neutral. “No, I didn’t.”
“Mhmm, you sure did.” Sasha rolled it around in her fingers. “A nice little string of numbers for someone called Marco?” She slid it across the counter to him. “I’m assuming the movie-star looking dude who walked out this afternoon.”
Elliot pursed his lips. “You fished that out of the trash can?”
“He was hot.” Sasha shrugged. “And interested.” She lifted a hand and flicked his earring with a smirk. “In you, which is probably a red flag for him, but—.”
“Fuck you, I’m likable!”
“Fucking debatable,” Sasha teased. “But, seriously, who is he?”
Elliot pushed the paper back towards her. “The guy I fucked after that party.”
“Two weeks ago?”
“Mhmm.”
“He looks like that and you walked away without a number?” Sasha gaped at him.
“Mhmm,” Elliot repeated with even more emphasis. He stirred the noddles again, checked the clock again. “And I put it in the trash for a reason.”
Sasha arched an eyebrow. “To save him from your fucked-up-ness?”
Elliot shot her a knowing stare. “What I do is my business, Sash.” He turned off the cook top and hip-checked her out of the way to drain the pasta. When the pasta was dumped from the colander back into the pot, the butter, salt and powder was standing by. “I don’t want a relationship.”
“Was he asking for one?” Sasha placed the milk — the one thing he forgot — next to him as he stirred.
Elliot shook his head. “Just to—.” He paused long enough to do finger quotes in the air. “See me again.”
“Well, that could mean anything.”
“Can it mean a quick fuck whenever I’m bored?”
“Yes—.”
“No.” Elliot poured in a little milk as he stirred, watching the powder dissolve into florid orange. A strangely comforting color. The same way peppermint ice cream now was, even if he insisted he still hated it. “Not with him.”
“Elliot—.”
“He’s the kind of person who wants a relationship,” Elliot cut her off. “Okay? Shake the magic-eight ball in the drawer. All signs point to yes.” He paused to snatch the piece of paper off the counter top. “This. This is him proving it. I tossed it because I don’t.”
Sasha gave him the most oh come on look she had in her arsenal.
“We could have come up here and had a roll, okay? I offered.” Elliot frowned. “He said he’d rather give me his number and left.”
“He wants a connection.”
“Yes.”
“Which you’re categorically afraid of,” Sasha shot back. She plucked the number out of Elliot’s fingers. “What’s the harm?”
“Sasha—.”
“No. Listen.” She reached for him again — his wrist this time, holding it in her hand as though she was weighing it with her palm. “What could it hurt? And he likes you, even when you’re snarking at him. He was all sunshiney walking out, and he was holding a copy of fucking 1984.”
Elliot rolled his eyes. “No one likes that book.”
“Someone has to otherwise we wouldn’t stock twelve copies at a time.” Sasha turned his hand over, palm-side up, and pressed the paper into his hand. “It’s just a number. He’s just a boy that thinks you’re hot. It’s not an engagement ring. You can make it what you want, you know?”
Elliot stared down at the offending little slip, wondering if he would light the stove and set it on fire before Sasha could stop him. Tearing something apart was easy. Letting it stand was hard. He picked sharp words instead. “Is that was you told TJ?”
To his disappointment, she didn’t take the bait. “No. I told him we’d figure it out.”
It popped his anger like a nail gun fired at a balloon. “Unlike you two, here’s nothing to figure out—.”
“You still have his shirt, don’t you? You were fucking wearing it.” Sasha asked, knowing the answer. He’d worn it in the time since he’d swiped it from Marco’s floor. “Text him. Give him his shirt back.”
“No—.”
“Then at the very least get your own goddamned shirt back because you complained about leaving it behind, didn’t you?”
Elliot made a face, then turned back to the pot. “Are we even going to bother with bowls for this?”
“Why, if we’re just going to eat the whole thing?” Sasha pulled away. She yanked open the silverware drawer, pulling out two forks and holding them up like an award. “Are you going to think about it?”
“About what?”
“Texting him.”
“Are you going to give me a fork?”
“Fork for your consideration?” Sasha grinned madly, turning them in the light.
Elliot sighed, defeated but not giving an inch otherwise. “Fine.”
“Good.” Sasha pulled out a chair, pushing a folded up dish towel onto the table, then kicked out the chair next to her for him. He sat down next to her.
It was a ritual, eating side by side — dinner without dishes, bags of chips or gummies, cereal at two in the morning, every so often a beer or a joint passed back and forth. Elliot leaned against the back, legs spread under the table. Sasha leaned forward, legs propped up on his chair behind his back. They almost always ate in silence. They talked around meals, not during them. They talked constantly in the car.
When the pot was empty, Sasha stood and placed it in the sink, filling it with water and soap. She flung open a cabinet door and pulled out a bag of gummy bears and tossed it at him, smiling as he caught it one handed — a vague gesture at being athletic, once upon a time. Elliot undid the rubber band keeping it closed and shook a few out a few into his palm. Sasha snagged it from him and did the same.
She leaned against the back of his chair, wrapped an arm around his neck, and rested her cheek against the top of his head. “Just text him. Maybe you’ll be surprised.”
Elliot twirled his phone in his fingers. “Go take your shower, Sash.”
“Yep. Bullshit tv at eight?”
“Whatever you want.”
She squeezed him a bit, scratched affectionately at the back of his neck, then left him to his own devices. Namely, staring blankly at the bag of gummies now sitting on the table in front of him. He popped another into his mouth, knowing he could probably house the whole bag before she reemerged if he wanted to. The buzzing had faded for the day. The urge wasn’t there.
You have a sugar problem, she’d said in gas station outside of Joshua Tree.
I’m an addict, of course I've got a fucking sugar problem, he’d answered lazily, drawing his fingers along a pack of Starbursts, the primary colors calling to him. Gotta fill the void with something.
It had taken her all of about two hours to find an article about opioids messing with appetites, and Elliot had another fucked up thing about him. Something he didn’t already know about himself, leaving him feeling weirdly hollow in the pit of his stomach.
Gotta fill the void with something.
Water rushed through the pipes in the wall as Sasha started the shower up, the metallic thunk when it switched from bath tap to shower head. Elliot extracted his phone from his pocket, the snarl of headphones flopping out after. The torn bit of paper still rested next to the stovetop where Sasha had left it, and Elliot had another twinge in his chest. To rip it up, throw it out, obliterate it and then figure out someway of blotting it from his memory.
He picked it up anyway.
He typed the number into a new message.
He chewed his lip until it was almost bloody. Stuffed six more gummies into his mouth and listened to the water run for a long time. Then he typed out a quick message.
Are you home tomorrow? I want to trade shirts.
The moment it sent, Elliot shut off the phone screen and slid the thing half way across the table from him. He sat chewing his lip, even as the incoming reply buzzed against the table top. He stayed just like that until Sasha came looking for him. Then he shoved his phone at her, told her to tell him what it said as he grabbed the remote and began flipping through for something brainless.
Sure. Come by around 2?
2 it is.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Words appear to be wording again? Let's hope it keeps up! I don't imagine too much more of this story, but I am liking letting it just... happen. If that makes sense.
Thank you for reading and for all your lovely encouragement, truly
xoxo, Orchid
Chapter Text
“Here.” Elliot was throwing the black shirt at him the moment the door opened. Marco thanked his decent reflexes for his being able to catch it, then snag the other boy by the belt loop before he could get away.
Elliot’s glare didn’t deter Marco, even though he knew it probably should. “Where’re you going?”
Elliot tugged half-heartedly away, then sighed. “Nowhere, apparently.” He turned back to Marco with his usual bored look. “You wanna take ‘em off?”
Marco blinked. “Take— what?”
Elliot’s hand wrapped around his own and tugged it, the fingers snagged in the belt loop of his jeans. “Since you’re so attached to them and all.”
“Shut up,” Marco snickered, but didn’t pull his hand away. Elliot didn’t let go either. “I just wanted to talk before you ran off again.”
“I wasn’t going to run off.”
“No?”
“No,” Elliot snarked. “I was gonna walk.”
Marco smirked and rolled his eyes. “Think I could convince you to stay?”
“Maybe.” Elliot stepped back closer. Close enough to touch, but still just out of reach. “What are you offering?”
Marco pulled him gently closer by the belt loop before extracting his hand. That same hand found its way around Elliot’s waist, the tips pressing into the taut muscles of his back. “I was thinking we could talk.”
Elliot stared at him. “You want to talk?”
“Mhmm. Maybe dinner later.”
“Talking and dinner. Well…” Elliot drifted off, expression unmoving. “As a matter of fact, I will be running off. Thanks for the shirt, it was nice—.”
“Okay, okay,” Marco laughed. “Heart to heart isn’t your style. I get it.”
“More like sincerity isn’t in my vocabulary.” All the same, Elliot seemed to tip towards him. He dragged his lip between his teeth, the pink skin darkening with each pass and fresh pressure. “You know. We could just have sex.”
“Sex?”
“Mhmm.”
“Just sex? Nothing else?”
Elliot rolled his eyes. “Well, if it’s as good as last time, I might let you feed me.”
“Work up an appetite?”
“Sure.”
Marco wrapped both arms around the other boy fully — a move more familiar with shorter, softer bodies, but Marco didn’t mind. Didn’t dislike it. Elliot didn’t seem to either. When Marco placed a testing kiss to the curve of his jaw, just under his ear, and nosed at his over long hair, Elliot bent towards it. Marco smiled into the warm skin. Prickly on the outside, but a thin layer. Underneath, there was wants and needs and nerves waiting to be encouraged.
Marco knew they’d both get what they wanted when Elliot let out a breathy little sound. Marco lifted his head. “Inside?”
“Yeah,” Elliot sighed. His hand had found its way to Marco’s hair, threading through the dark curls. His eyes shone with want. “Show me again.”
“C’mon.” Marco pulled away and took Elliot’s hand. “This way.” He tugged them through the door, it slamming into place behind them. He dropped the previously missing shirt onto his shoe rack as they passed it. “What d’you want?”
“Something rough,” Elliot answered, almost too easily. “I—.” He broke off suddenly.
Turning around, Marco caught a flash of uncertainty, the first color of an embarrassed blush, teeth pressed down into the swell of lip. For no more than a second, Elliot looked smaller, younger; guard and shields down until the moment their eyes met again. Then every wall was back into place, concealing everything. Marco couldn’t help the tug in his gut, telling him to tear it all down.
Marco nodded. “I’m listening.”
It took another very long moment before Elliot spoke again. If he wasn’t so proud, Marco might have called it hesitance. “I want out of my head.”
Marco nodded, encouragingly. His nerves were already rousing themselves, his blood turning hot under his skin.
“That’s all,” Elliot continued. “I want out of my head. I want you to do it. Is that enough to go on?”
“If I ask if something’s okay, will you answer me?”
“Yeah.”
“If you don’t like something, will you tell me to fuck off?”
Elliot scoffed. “C’mon. It’s my favorite thing to do.”
“I couldn’t tell at all.” Marco grinned. “Okay. I can work with that.” Elliot relaxed a fraction, and he latched onto that as fast as he could. “How do you feel about the couch?”
“Good.”
“Then c’mon, El.” Marco stepped backwards, towards the pass through to the small living room. Elliot’s hand was still in his. He still followed as Marco brought him close again, in front of the blinds-less windows.
Marco tugged his shirt over his head and off, tossing it towards the television, then dropped onto the couch with his legs spread and sweatpants slung low on his hipbones. He stared up at Elliot, lingering just at the edge of the coffee table and studying him — cautious, suspicious, or simple hesitation, Marco didn’t know but could see it clear as day. Elliot would balk or sneer if he told him, but it was there all the same.
Marco held out a hand. “You coming or what?”
Elliot rolled his eyes. A second later, he was stripping his shirt over his head — a strangely colored floral button-down that belonged more in the 1970s or Palm Springs, or even Point Break before it belonged on Elliot, but Marco couldn’t deny that he pulled it off. Pun intended. The gaudy shirt hit the floor, his shorts a few breaths later, leaving Elliot in navy boxer briefs that looked new.
“We’re sober this time,” Elliot said quietly, crawling into Marco’s lap. He tipped his head, affecting arrogance he seemed to want to have. “Still interested?”
“Seriously?” Marco pressed a hand to the small of Elliot’s back as he settled across his hips. “‘Course I’m fuckin’ interested.”
His weight was satisfying — over top of him, pressing him down into the cushions, making heat pool and curl in his stomach — and Marco couldn’t help bucking up into him. He was half hard in his sweatpants, growing more so by the second. Fresh urgency rose up in him alongside his arousal as he watched Elliot’s own cock become more obvious between his legs, under the navy fabric.
“Just checking.” Elliot wiggled in place. A haziness settled over his features, and his eyelashes fluttered at the friction. “That goes both ways.”
“Always. No question.”
“Good. Glad we’re on the same page.” Elliot ground down again and groaned. Marco fought to keep his eyes open as he arched up into him. “You should kiss me.”
“Yeah?” Marco breathed and reached for his hips.
“Yeah.” Elliot gasped as his fingers sank into the soft pale skin, holding him in place as Marco rolled their hips together. Feeling everything, savoring each sinuous grind. “Like that. A lot. You’re good at it.”
“You too.”
Marco pushed himself up just enough to get a hand around Elliot’s neck, guiding him down into heated kiss. The odd angle slowed them, dampened some of the fever building between them. Elliot lost some finesse from being bent over. Marco lost some control having to crane his neck to reach him. Elliot’s thighs tightened against him, the muscles keeping him steady, but Marco was holding himself up by one hand and years of crunches during soccer practice. It was always going to have a time limit. Marco just wished had been a little longer, a little less sudden in the end.
“Oh fuck— oof.”
His elbow bent suddenly and Marco dropped back down against the cushions. Elliot, thrown off balance, fell forward with him; catching himself with his hands before their heads connected painfully. For one very long moment, they were frozen, staring wide-eyed at one another in surprise.
Then a curl up in one corner of Elliot’s mouth. “Shit.”
Then a laugh bubbled up in Marco’s throat. “I swear I’m smoother than that.”
A thin, wry smile and a crinkle at the corner of his eyes, the hazel centers glittering with mirth. “I don’t believe that.”
“No, I swear, I—.” Marco broke off with a laugh. He reached up, giggling madly, to brush his palm across Elliot’s cheek and into his shaggy brown hair. “I guess it doesn’t matter. Does it?”
“Oh no, this is the make or break moment.” Elliot ducked his head for another kiss, soft and brief. “Totally ruined the moment.” Another kiss, then one to Marco’s cheek. Oddly tender for who Elliot had been in front of him so far. “Never want to sleep with you ever again.”
“That sucks.” Marco tipped forward, landing a kiss of his own at Elliot’s temple. “Because I was really looking forward to hearing you again.”
“Mhmm.” Elliot rolled his hips, renewed flush high in his cheeks. “I guess I can make an exception.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“No one’s ever accused me of that.” Elliot smirked and pulled himself up again. Fingers trailed lightly over Marco’s exposed shoulders, collarbone, throat, and chest. Taking in every curve of muscle and bone. Feeling the pulse in his neck, his throat working as he swallowed. Tweaking the bud of his nipple and grinning at the shuddery moan that escaped him.
Marco caught his breath. “Like that?”
“Sure.” His rakish grin told another story — that Elliot liked it a lot, was thrilled by the revelation, and was planning on using that knowledge at ever opportunity.
“Then do it again,” Marco challenged.
Not two seconds later, his back was rolling against the pillow underneath him and the spike of desire as Elliot’s thumbs found both nipples, rolling and pressing. Just enough to bring the heat in him up to a simmer, tighten the knot of arousal between his hips down another few notches. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t make him yelp. Just consistent pressure sending tremors down his spine. He tipped his head back against the arm of his couch, eyelashes fluttering as he let body move with the sensation.
“Good?” Elliot asked.
Marco nodded frantically. “Good.”
“How about this?”
One of Elliot’s hands left Marco’s, replaced immediately by the warm, wet flat of Elliot’s tongue kitten licking there. Licking turned to sucking, then back again. All the while, Marco nerves ignited and brain turned fuzzy. He wasn’t quite sure what left his mouth, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t totally in English. Not that he noticed or cared, or cared whether Elliot cared. He hadn’t been touched so little but with so much effect before. Hell, he’d never felt this good playing with his nipples himself while jerking off, let alone anyone else touching him. It was mind-boggling. It was maddening. It was—
“Good?” Elliot pulled off enough to ask.
“Fantastic,” Marco gasped. “Fucking hell, that feels good.”
He could hear Elliot’s answering smirk. “Yeah? Sensitive there?”
“Apparently. God damn.”
“The more you know,” Elliot singsonged, then went back to his ministrations. Even strokes of his tongue, circling with the tip tauntingly. “I wonder if I could make you come just like this,” he mused, rolling the bud between his fingers again. Gently, horribly perfectly gentle. “Squirming and whining just from this. What if I just add a little—?”
Marco whined shamelessly as Elliot cupped his cock through his sweatpants, squeezing and rolling. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“God, you’re sensitive.”
“I thought you wanted me to — ah!”
Elliot licked again, slow and dripping wet. As if he was pooling the saliva on his tongue to make as much of a mess as possible. “I changed my mind.”
Marco caught his breath and tucked his chin to look down at Elliot, smirking up at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Elliot kept his gaze but bent his head, putting on a show as he took Marco’s nipple back in his mouth. Hazy, honeyed gaze; back arched and body bent over Marco’s. Fully in control and fully surrendered. It was a good look on him.
Marco rested his hand on Elliot’s head, petting through the hair, twirling it around his fingers and scratching appreciatively at his scalp. Watching Elliot’s expression flicker and lashes flutter. Shivering at the pleased hum that vibrated his tongue. “Try it.”
“Hm?” Elliot hummed around him.
“Make me come,” Marco panted. “Like this. I think you can.”
“Yeah?” For the first time, Elliot sounded breathless. His neediness cracking through the over-confident, extremely-suspicious veneer he held. The heat in his eyes was hard to hide, glowing through in the amber flecks among the green.
Marco nodded. “Then whatever you want. I swear, whatever you—.”
“Shh.” Elliot pressed the heel of his palm down against him. “Lift your hips.”
Marco did without a second thought. Elliot’s nimble fingers tucked into the elastic waistband and tugged down the last two layers Marco had. Leaving him bare and sprawled on his own couch. Elliot — on his knees, skin lit up in the sun — rolled his briefs down, leaving them at mid-thigh before stretching himself back over Marco.
“Take ‘em off.” Marco dragged a hand down Elliot’s back, tucking two fingers between his cheeks to circle the furled muscle.
Elliot shook his head as repositioned himself — aligning their hips, lips on Marco’s chest, hips rolling back against the probing fingers. “You can. Later. Just need to be able t’do. To—. This.”
Thighs spread wide, Elliot thrust his hips and Marco understood. Their cocks were perfectly aligned, hard and just slick with precome to ease the way. His tongue worked its quick magic on Marco again. His hips rolled them together, sending a starfall of sparks down over Marco’s body until Elliot had the bright idea to reach between them, fist them both in his broad had, and do nothing more than just squeeze.
And squeeze.
And squeeze.
Every squeeze in time with a lap of his tongue, a hard suck, a teasing nip to his pec. Desire built like a bonfire with each passing second; each move another piece of kindling set atop the blaze. Another tug on either end of the knot that made the cord, tightening and tightening and tightening between his hipbones until Marco was tense and trembling.
“El—,” he keened. “El, I’m gonna—. I’m close, I’m—.”
Elliot lifted his head, eyes glasses and cheeks flushed. He kissed Marco again, open-mouthed to taste him, and pulling away with a bite to his lip. “C’mon. Come for me.”
“El—.”
“Come for me,” Elliot murmured against his mouth, then recaptured it in a tongue-tying kiss. He thrust into his hand, cockhead pressed tight against Marco’s own.
“Vaya.”
Marco’s eyes rolled and warmth rushed through him. For long moments, his body was not his own, moving at the behest of his own pleasure. Thrusting into Elliot’s hand, spilling hot over his own stomach. Fingers trembling and thighs shaking and more sounds falling from his lips.
When he came back to himself, Elliot had a hand braced against Marco’s chest. The other worked over his cock in heavy strokes. Marco reached out, fingertips brushing his wrist.
“Can I—?”
Elliot shook his head, eyes closing and head lolling back on his shoulders. “Jus’. Taking the—, the edge off. Fuck, fuck. Fuck.”
Then his body seized and released. Come splattered his own stomach and hips as well as Marco’s own. His cheeks were a florid, beautiful bright pink. Sweat gleamed at his hairline and across his shoulders. The softness of his stomach, smeared with release made Marco want to do ridiculous things — things like lick, and bite, and press his face into it. Thoughts he had about Elliot’s broad shoulders and decent biceps — strength there, covered in a bit of softness.
Marco loved it. Let it carry his mind to sappy, sex-drunk thoughts, knowing Elliot would probably hate every insinuation.
He smiled, knowing that it was loopy and crooked. “Hey.”
Elliot’s hand dragged down Marco’s chest, fingers coming to rest in the mess. “Hey.”
“Just taking the edge off?” He teased, raising an eyebrow.
Elliot flashed him a similarly lopsided smile. “Yep. Can’t be going off the second you get in me.”
“That’s how you want it?” Marco asked. Certainty was always good.
“Think so.” Elliot slumped down against him, the mess smearing between them. “Kind of want to be stuffed. I don’t know.”
“Sounds good.”
The mess was cooling between them, likely to turn sticky soon. It’d be a good excuse to get him in a shower, run his fingers through all that shaggy went hair, Marco thought. He’d probably feel like a lecher later, but for the moment he was warm and sated. Content to do nothing but thread his fingers through Elliot’s soft hair.
“Y’know, we could keep this up and I could get you inside me,” Marco mused, bathing in the afterglow.
Elliot’s laugh was a rumble against his chest, a hot puff against his shoulder. “Sure. Sure.”
“Dismissive much.”
“Please. You don’t—.”
“My dildo says otherwise, thanks very much.”
Elliot lifted his head enough to loom over him again. “You’ve got one?”
Marco nodded. “I’ve got two, plus a vibrating plug that was a joke but might be my favorite now.”
“That’s…” Elliot exhaled. “That’s really fucking hot.”
“Want me to use it?” Marco purred, watching Elliot’s flush deepen and his mouth go slack all over again. “Put the little plug in, give you the remote. Let you play with it while I fuck you.”
He could hear Elliot’s swallow. “That. That could happen.”
“Next or another time?”
“Jesus fuck.” Elliot closed his eyes and tipped his forehead against Marco’s. “Y’know, keep comin’ up with shit like that and I might just keep hanging by your door."
“Like it isn’t open to you whenever.” Marco brushed their noses together. “I like you, just so you know.”
“You shouldn’t,” Elliot mumbled.
“Why not?”
“B’cause.” He pressed closer, body growing heavier as it became more languid. “M’not good for you.”
“You keep saying that—.”
“Lemme sleep!” Elliot protested, poking him in the ribs. “Jus’ a lil’ bit, okay?”
“Okay.” Marco played with his hair, smoothed a hand down his back. “Just for a bit. Then a shower.”
Elliot had already dropped into a doze, breathing slow and even. Vulnerable, trusting, all an antithesis to his prickliness. Everything turned on its head, not quite what it seemed, and Marco wondered how long he could keep up. He could about halfway through the thought before he realized he didn’t care. Elliot would open up when and how he wanted. Marco would be there with arms open when he did, even if Elliot himself wouldn’t believe it or would pretend not to understand why.
He wrapped his arms around Elliot’s shoulders and slouched down further on the couch cushions. He let himself drift in the afterglow, let his body settle fully. Elliot’s own a perfect weight overtop of him — human and sleeping, back a constellations of freckles, moles, and marks.
Marco pressed his nose to Elliot’s hairline. Inhaling sweat and salt, the sweet fading notes of hair product or shampoo. He thought about washing Elliot’s hair. He thought about the man, vice tight around him as the plug turned his spine to putty. He thought about Elliot’s insistence — I’m not good for you, you don’t want me — and wondered if that resistance dovetailed with the marks littering his pale back.
They didn’t fuck in the shower.
Elliot might have drifted off hoping they would have, Marco and his salacious suggestions still echoing in his ear. Still, Elliot couldn’t pout too badly. Marco’s strong fingers massaging shampoo and conditioner into his hair, then tipping his head just perfectly for it all to rinse out, was more satisfying than Elliot would have bet on.
They didn’t fuck after the water was turned off and towels were found. They made out lazily against the countertop, the edge of the formica biting into Elliot’s ass as his legs wrapped around Marco’s trim waist.
Elliot wondered if he should find his clothes and leave. He wondered if the second round was worth hanging around for. He wondered why he couldn’t bring himself to leave, what kept him hanging about like a stray dog, lingering in Marco’s kitchen in Marco’s borrowed briefs and his own patterned shirt while Marco started dinner for them. Something that smelled delicious before the oven was even turned on.
A bowl of popcorn sat in the middle of kitchen table to tide them over in the meanwhile. Elliot resisted the urge to lick the salt from his fingers. He didn’t resist the urge to stare at Marco as he moved around, humming along with the radio and swaying his hips.
Elliot’s eyes kept drifting to the radio in the window sill. He popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth. It had only been three times, but Marco Peña was already all over him. And Elliot wasn’t clawing at the walls to get rid of him.
“You doin’ okay over there?” The same man asked over his shoulder. He was wielding a wooden spoon, sautéing onions in a small pan on the stove.
“Fine,” Elliot answered. “Need any help?”
“Nah, not really.” Marco turned off the stove, then pulled out a baking sheet. “You’re not one of those weird people who don’t eat leftovers are you?”
Elliot snorted. “Nah way. Sash would take my head off if I was.”
“Were you before you met her?” Marco asked lightly. He pulled a small container out of the fridge, along with an avocado, a jar, and a bag of shredded cheese.
“Don’t know,” Elliot answered. “We never really had leftovers and I usually ate cereal anyway.”
“Cereal?”
“Mhmm. Cookie Crisp mostly. Hope you’re not thinking I’m the pinnacle of health, prom king.”
Marco laughed. “Well I hope not. I’m making steak nachos, so I can’t claim to be either.”
“Fuck off, I’ve seen you naked.” Elliot rolled his eyes and reached for the bowl again. Slouching back in the chair, he folded his legs up on the chair to watch Marco.
Marco, who was staring at him incredulously. “I’ve seen you too.”
Elliot rolled his eyes again. “And?”
“And,” Marco drew out the word as he opened a bag. “You’re hot. Start talking shit and I’ll throw a totopo at your head.”
“Okay,” Elliot drawled. “Why do you like me?”
“Why do you keep saying you’re bad for me?” Marco fired back.
“Touche.”
“I’m serious.” Marco made a layer of chips on the sheet pan as the oven beeped. “Because you seem fine to me. Weird and cagey, but I sort of get that.”
Elliot watched him layer on a familiar assortment of things, resisting the need to wander over, pluck a pickled jalapeño slice out of the jar like he’d done once before. He couldn’t remember where. Marco shoved the sheet into the oven, then turned to him, arms crossed over his chest and watching him. Not judging, not exasperated, just vaguely impatient. Like it was nagging at him.
“Maybe I didn’t mean anything by it.” Elliot shrugged noncommittally. “Maybe your dick got me a little fucked up and I just say things that don’t mean anything.”
“Fuck off, I’m not that good.”
Elliot scoffed. “I’ve passed the fuck out every time we’ve hooked up.”
“It’s been twice.”
“Still, it’s establishing a pattern I’m not used to.”
“Then maybe you should stay over tonight,” Marco said, voice unreadable. “Just to really make sure.”
“Maybe.”
Elliot let things linger in the air as cumin and Chile and cheese perfumed the kitchen. As the timer beeped and Marco pulled the tray out, Elliot still crunching on the popcorn.
“Elliot,” Marco tried again.
“What?” He tossed a piece of popcorn at the other boy’s head.
“Just tell me something?” Marco said. “I’ll drop it. Just.” He sighed. “Something to go on? Even if it’s fake.”
“Like my name that first time?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Okay.” He swung around on the chair as Marco set the tray between them, taking the chair opposite. “I’m used to getting things taken out of my hands.” Elliot dropped some melted cheese and avocado into his mouth. “Not even good things. Just things.”
Marco licked refried beans off his thumb. “Let nothing in because it’s always going to go away?”
“Yeah.”
“I know the feeling.”
Elliot gave him an unimpressed look. “You? Really?”
Marco pulled another chip from the pile, plucking the pickled jalapeño off and popping it into his mouth first. “Yeah me.” He crunched and swallowed, then hit Elliot with an uncompromising stare. “What, you think you’re the only person on earth whoever shed a tear?”
“I’m a selfish motherfucker, so yeah, maybe I do.” Elliot bit into his tongue hard the moment the words were out.
Marco stared at him, challenging him. “What?”
“You’re not fucked up about it,” Elliot muttered. “You don’t look fucked up about it.”
“That’s generous of you.”
“Your sarcasm sucks.”
“Hang around long enough and maybe I’ll learn from you.” Marco rolled his shoulders against the back of his chair. “Maybe mine’s not as tragic as yours, but it’s still dragging around behind me.”
“Tell me?”
“Why should I?”
Elliot shrugged. “Maybe it’ll even the playing field. I don’t know.”
Marco doesn’t say anything for a while. “My parents had me young. Not an accident, but probably before they really wanted to. They love me, but my siblings are still in elementary school really. I’m in college. Not the biggest priority. Not to mention we moved around a lot.”
Something had changed between them, Finn thought. A slight shift, hardly noticeable. Maybe they had come to an understanding. Not quite comfort, but near enough to be mistaken for it.
“Why?”
“Mom’s career Air Force. We went where her job was.”
“So, you’re a brat?”
“Yeah. Something like that. Making friends is easy, but keeping them after I’m gone is hard. It’s hard to imagine things being permanent unless I make them. I practically had to beg for them to put off the next move so I could graduate at the same school I started senior year at. Not that that was any big deal, in the end.”
“I don’t know. You seem like you would have been a big deal in high school. All American athlete, nice smile, polite to everyone.”
“Why you call me prom king?”
“Yeah. Little bit.” Elliot let the words sink in, mind still tumbling with Marco’s words, with his own.
Marco licked his lip and picked a piece of steak off the nachos. “I wasn’t prom king.”
Elliot pulled another chip covered in cheese. “I never went to mine. Didn’t even finish high school.” He crunched into it. “So what do I know?”
Marco’s brow crinkled. “You didn’t finish—.”
“Uh,-uh-uh,” Elliot interrupted. “We’re not talking about me anymore, we’re talking about you. So keep talking.” He finished off the chip and reached for another one. Marco watched him the whole time, and he had to admit he liked it. “Are you for real telling me someone like you wasn’t in everyone’s sights?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Marco rolled his eyes fondly.
“Damn.” Elliot finished the chip, then folded his hands in front of him. Perfect manners like his mother hoped. “You have my attention.”
“Just admit it,” Marco said. “I’ve had your attention for way longer than you want to admit, Lefevre.”
“Never in a million years.” Elliot leaned forward. “Seriously though. I’m listening.”
“Color me shocked.”
“Fuck off.”
“I thought you wanted me to keep talking?”
Elliot flashed him a look — no duh, asshole, and something painfully fond all balled up into one scathing look.
Marco made a face, clearly wrapping his mind around an explanation of any kind. “It’s stupid, but I’m always someone’s second choice. Feels like, at least. A girl I liked was.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know what she was doing. She had a boyfriend in college, her best friend’s older brother, but started flirting with me.” He shook his head, then turned back to the sheet pan like it was the perfect center to cling to. “I didn’t know about the rest of it until after we kissed at a dance and shit hit the fan.”
Elliot hummed. “Fucked up.”
“Kind of.”
“Makes me feel better about my cultish country club rehab era.”
Marco’s head popped up, focus suddenly laser like on him. “Okay, you’ve gotta explain that.”
“Another time,” Elliot waved it away. “Short answer, I’m an addict, mostly sober, and there were folks that had opinions about the treatment I got. But I don’t feel like talking about that right now.”
“Sure.” Marco nodded eager. “I mean, if you ever want—.”
“I don’t. Not to anyone, so you’re not special or anything.” Elliot smirked. “Much rather hear about your drama anyway,
Marco shrugged. “There’s not much more than that. Apparently he had a friend who was a girl at school and it made her jealous, so she was using me to feel better or get back at him. I don’t know, but I really liked her. And, when I told her, she said she’d rather be with him. After all that.”
“Well, fuck,” Elliot said. “What was her name?”
“Why?”
“Isn’t that what you do when you have a shitty ex?” Elliot asked. “Say their name and gossip so your friends can say they suck or something?”
“Sounds like television.”
“Probably. Who even knows how people actually act.” Elliot inhaled and stretched his arms over his head. “Seriously though. Name. Now.”
Marco looked sheepish. “Elle.”
Elliot cracked a smirk. “You’re fucking joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Fuck, maybe you do have a type,” Elliot mused. He raised a brow. “You still hung up on her or something?”
“Hell no. Got over it over the summer. Why?”
Elliot grinned madly, pointing at himself. “Ell-iot.”
Marco’s laugh seemed to startle out of him. His head tipped back and his eyes closed, a hand sliding from forehead to chin as his shoulders shook.
A knot formed in his throat. He tried swallowing it back but it wouldn’t budge. If he closed his eyes, he was with Sasha in that green, green room, with her head tipped back and his fingers slipping on that cloudy glass. The weight of it, pressed against his palm, as surrender dropped over him.
His ears rang. From the quiet. From the isolation. His ears rang now, the sharp sound from earlier still resonating inside his skull. A dull throbbing just behind it like a drumbeat, settled with a bitterness in the back of his throat.
Moments flashed behind his eyes. Elliot wondered how much of it was real.
Him on the way to the Annex, rolling around in the backseat of a car. The look on his mother’s face in the early spring dark. The sound of his own voice, out of his own throat, disembodied and subsumed like the Sonoran in a dust storm; sour-smelling drug like creosote in his nose.
“Fuck,” Elliot exhaled.
He pulled his legs up to his chest and buried his face in his hands. Stubble scratched at his palms as he scrubbed over his cheeks, jaw, neck, and eyes.
There was light outside of windows. The pressure of his fingers muddled it in hazy colors behind his eyelids. His clothes had been changed to stark linen white. Heaven’s Gate came to mind, but Elliot wasn’t quite sure where the thought had been living.
“Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck!”
It was probably the next morning. His stomach curled and tossed. Nerves now, not the after effects of the drug the Annex — the Pezims — had used. He was certain. He knew the differences as well as he knew the mottle of track marks in the crook of his right arm.
He scratched his fingernails against his scalp, pulling on his hair and hoping it would bring him back to reality. He’d wake up in the backseat of his car in an unknown parking lot, like he did that one summer. More than just summer — he hadn’t kept track of those things. He had busybody, somewhat complacent relatives to hold that guilt trip over his head for as long as they liked.
“Fuck,” Elliot sniffed. “I just want to go home.” Elliot groaned into his hands. “God, I actually want to go home.”
He sucked a deep breath, sank his fingers to the roots of his hair and yanking to send the crackle of pain up the back of his neck. He exhaled to the too-white-white duvet underneath him.
He rolled down onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling and letting his arms go limp above his head. “I actually want to go home.”
A breath he pulled himself up to standing, rolling his neck and shoulders. He walked slowly around the perimeter of the room once, twice...
Elliot lost count of how many times, how many times he changed directions until he finally made up his mind. “Alright then.“
He ran his hands up and down his arms, past his elbows, and pressed his fingers into his shoulder muscles. He tipped his head one way, then the other, eyes locked on the door across from him.
“Maybe they’ll just kill me.”
Maybe he’d find Sasha first.
Elliot woke up with a lurch, head pounding with the lingering fear of the dream. Dream, nightmare, memory, it was all so muddled they were essentially the same thing. He hadn’t meant to stay over, but Marco was insistent and fucking good in the sack. So who was Elliot to say no?
He had sent Sasha a text, gotten a thumbs up back, and resigned his phone to the bedside table.
It rested there now, taunting him with the comfort of his friend on the other end. The only other people who understood the mess in his head. The mess they had, somehow, lived beyond. Instead, he reached for his shorts, the pocket harboring a crumpled carton of Virginia Slims and a Bic lighter.
He stumbled out of bed, then froze. Marco made a sleepy noise, his toes wiggled disjointedly. The blanket shifted. He’d pulled it up to his chin, over his shoulders. The comforter slipped to show a little of his neck, his shoulder, his chin. Elliot waited until he relaxed back into sleep. A moment later, he had a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter clicking in his cupped palm as he walked to the window, cracking it open.
He inhaled until his lungs ached.
He held it until they burned, uncaring about the effects on his insides.
He exhaled out the open bedroom window.
If he was at home, still in high school, he’d have a toilet paper roll stuffed with dryer sheets. The height of stoner technology to not let his parents onto whatever he was up to — even though they already knew. Elliot knew now he hadn’t been subtle. At the time, he thought he was functioning perfectly.
He watched his breath, silvery and thin, curl into the chilled night air. The smell of tobacco sat like a halo around him, a strange contrast to the damp and trees outside. Moonlight drifted in the salt air, settling on bushes, tree limbs, trellises, and burlap-covered roses across Marco’s street.
He rolled his head against the wall, eyes refocusing in the dark of his bedroom. It was late; all the lights were off save for the dim night light next to the bathroom door that Marco insisted keeping on. Just for him. In case he needed it.
Marco’s chest rose and fell steadily under the blanket. His eyelashes fluttered then stilled. Every part of him looked soft. Soft hair, soft clothes, soft features; gentle, relaxed, settled for once. Elliot’s chest squeezed.
He could feel the first waves of something shimmering in his skin. He absently rolled his neck, then moved into a more comfortable position. He thought about camping out in the living room. He thought about digging through the cabinet where he saw Marco’s small collection of bottles. He thought about leaving.
Elliot reached for his phone. He raised the screen over his face, beaming 1:22am harsh and bright back at him. “Fuck, I’m going to be so fucked tomorrow. Well, today.”
Elliot exhaled through his nose. He smirked at the dragon’s-breath look it had until the night sucked it out of the old windows and away. He twirled the cigarette between his fingers and considered it.
“I’m gonna wake up tomorrow with my face on sideways,” He said at Marco like the other boy could hear. “Full permission to give me crap for it. I did it to myself.”
His throat tightened and his nose wrinkled. He pressed his hand hard into the cushion underneath him to ground the strange tilting feeling that over came him.
I did it to myself.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off any more bad feelings. Little half-snapshots of memories flickered behind his eyelids. Elliot did his best to see each one and let it pass. Let it show then slide away like so much water down a rain spout.
Sure, he did this — forgetting the edges of his tolerance despite years of knowing — to himself. But that was all. Not the other myriad scattershot of images from his whole 20 years.
Well, maybe some of those too, he reminded himself. But not the big things.
Not the big things. Not the things that hurt. Those had been out of his control. Those had been decided for him. Those had been preventable, not inevitable, and not cosmic punishment, no matter how much the universe seemed to show him signs to convince him otherwise.
Elliot saw each moment. He clocked what they felt like, precisely. He let them pass. Each and every one until they began to fade. Like a dust storm in the desert, rising up from nowhere and gone. Whatever it covered could be dusted off in the aftermath.
He put the cigarette out on the window sill and dropped what was left of it into the gutter, damp with rain. He closed the window, inhaled warm air through his nose.
He let it flow down his throat and settle into his lungs. He held it until it was aching, until his chest was screaming but warming through.
He exhaled something warmer than what had come in.
His hand dropped from his nose. His eyes fluttered open, feeling heavier than before. Drowsy, finally. He tilted his head to see Finn, curled under his blanket and framed in hazy amber half-light.
“I quit, you know that?” Elliot whispered. “Once. I tried hard to.” He didn’t know who he was talking to, or what about, but the words came nonetheless. “But it’s hard to let go of the one thing that’s in your control anymore.”
He made sure the window was locked, then slid back into bed with Marco. He rested his head against the pillow, watching the man’s face slack in sleep. Feeling all the aches left behind from their time the day before. The aches that would creep up the moment Elliot left.
He let out a slow breath. “You know,” he whispered. “If you were awake, you’d tell me to stop being sorry for myself. To let me have something.” He pursed his lips, slid closer to the sleeping boy. “Or, maybe I just wish someone would.”
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