Fic: The Kids in York (4/7)
Title: The Kids in York (4/7)
Characters: Marcus/Esca, Liathan, Cottia, Uncle Aquila, Placidus, etc.
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings: high school AU so the boys are 16/17
Word Count: 46k (7,100 this part)
Summary: Cottingswood High, Yorkshire. You get all kinds, but as someone who's bounced around Child Services, has a hot-headed chav for a best friend, and gets mistaken for a girl by the daft new student in History, Esca MacCunoval is not your ordinary kid.
PART FOUR: Oh Cottia, Bless
Esca’s in the front garden, nodding along to Combat Rock as he drowns a flowerless shrub with the hose.
Go straight to hell, boys, Esca mouths, bopping his head. Go straight to-
Someone grabs his shoulder.
“Fucking hell!” Esca yelps, spinning around. Just barely keeps from spraying his attacker, which Esca soon realizes is actually a girl ‘bout his age, maybe a little younger, a purple rucksack strapped to her back.
Esca twists off the brass nozzle with little squeaks until there’s nothing but a drip coming out the end. “Scared the bloody shite outta me,” he says, ripping his earphones out and shoving them into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Warn a man next time, yeah?”
“That was a warning,” she says, smiling cheekily.
“Almost watered you along with the bushes.”
“No harm either way,” she says amiably. “Nothing wrong with getting a bit wet, aye? S’not like I’m dressed in a bloody ball gown at ten in the morning.”
“S’pose not,” Esca says, dropping the garden hose to the grass with a wet plop and rubbing his chilled palms together. “So, whatsit you want? You’re trespassing, you know?”
“Friendly bloke, I see,” she says without vitriol. “Well, anyway. I’m here to see Marcus. Is he in the house? I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. Which is strange, cos usually Uncle Aquila answers, but last week he wasn’t wearing any trousers, just a funny dressing gown, and I might’ve laughed a bit at his chicken legs y’see, so I don’t wonder if I’ve upset him…”
Esca takes a step back, taking a proper look at the girl as she natters on in her high, bell-like voice. She’s awfully pretty-blonde hair, sunny as straw and down to her waist. Fine skin like a china doll, her face sweet and round like one too. And she doesn’t seem like one’a them girls who know how fit they are, cos she’s wearing a ratty sweatshirt with holes in the wrists that she’s pushed her thumbs through, on top of oversized jeans with hems that drag in the mud.
“…and I told him, it’s perfectly all right for Italians not to wear trousers. It’s bloody traditional, innit? Like togas, yeah? Well anyway, I might’ve just been encouraging Marcus not to wear trousers, cos he’s well fit, I’m sure you’ve seen. And anyway I think he’ll cotton on to the idea sooner or later, cos have you seen his shorts? It’s bloody well near the same-“
“Sorry,” Esca interrupts, feeling his blood rush to his cheeks the longer she chin-wags about Marcus and how he ought not to be wearing trousers. “You’re looking for him, right? He’s probably still asleep, the lazy bugger.”
The girl giggles behind a hand. “Should you be talking that way ‘bout him? Wouldn’t want you to get sacked or nothing.”
“Why, what d’you mean?” Esca looks down at himself. He’s just wearing jeans and a white tee, a leather jacket. Not exactly screaming prole now, is he?
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” the girl says. “Just that-you’re the gardener, yeah?” She points to the hose snaked over Esca’s left foot. “I just assumed, since you were watering the bushes. Unless, is this a past-time of yours? I go around scaring blokes for sport, you go around watering their lawns. What a pair we make!”
“I suppose,” Esca says uncomfortably. Bloody hell, the girl is strange. “Anyway, I can grab Marcus, if you like. But, erm. Who exactly are you?”
“Oh, sorry. S’too early on a weekend for me to be remembering me manners.” She sticks a hand out. “Cottia. I’m just two doors down,” she says, gesturing along the wide, curving street.
“And what d’you need Marcus for? So I knows what to say to him.”
“He’ll know me,” she says easily. “We got to the same school. He’s been tutoring me the last few weeks.”
Esca tries not to let the surprise show on his face. It’s not like he thinks Marcus is a complete idiot or nothing. Just that Marcus ent exactly Mensa material, neither. He settles for repeating, doubtfully, “Tutoring?”
“He’s teaching me Italian.”
“Ah,” Esca nods. Cottia makes a face.
“I bloody well hate it, but my parents, you see. Completely obsessed with Italy. They met in Napoli, so everything’s Italy-this, Italy-that. Though I suppose, that’ll work in my favour when I introduce them to Marcus-“
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, there’s a school disco in a couple weeks. Marcus is going to be my date,” she says, beaming.
“Oh.” Esca blinks. “Erm, I’ll…go wake him for you, yeah?”
“Oh, you’re lovely,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Esca.”
“Esca…” she says, turning thoughtful. “Esca…the name sounds so familiar.”
“Well, I used to attend Cottingswood,” he replies. They’re entering dangerous territory though, so he sets off for the front entrance, taking it for granted that she’ll follow him, which she does, fluttering behind like a drunken butterfly.
“Oh, I know! Esca MacCunoval. You’re Liathan’s friend, aren’t you? His sister Aileen’s in my maths class, we get along rather well. I’ve been over at the Rhona’s a couple times. Liathan’s mentioned you before.”
Esca snorts, unlocking the front door. “I’m sure he has.”
Once inside, he tunes Cottia out. The elder Aquila is nowhere to be seen, but unless Marcus has completely changed his habits and decided to venture out before ten AM on a weekend, Esca reckons he’s still in bed. Stops in front of his bedroom door and knocks sharply on the wooden surface.
He hears a grumpy noise inside. Yep, definitely Marcus.
“I’m comin’ in,” Esca says, hand on the doorknob.
Before he gets it all the way open, however, Cottia dumps her rucksack on the floor and flies past him in a blur of gold.
“Marcus!” she calls, bounding into his room and jumping onto the lump beneath the covers.
Marcus grunts, rolling onto his back. “What the hell?” he rasps.
As soon as his face is revealed, one cheek covered in pillow creases, Cottia ducks her head down and plants a long, lingering kiss onto Marcus’ lips. Her hair slips from behind her ear, falling in a thick curtain that obscures them from view. Esca can hear them though; Marcus gurgles a little, then pushes Cottia off.
“Jesus, Cottia,” he says, sounding panicked.
“Don’t be shy now,” she says happily. “You agreed to be my date to the Snow Ball. I’m just practising.”
“It’s a dance, not our wedding,” Marcus complains, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. “And anyway, what are you doing here? I thought we weren’t meeting until tomorrow.”
As Cottia responds, apologising for mixing up the dates but not sounding the slightest bit sorry, Esca quietly lets himself out of the room. The two of them seem plenty preoccupied, and they don’t need the naffing gardener standing about like a right creep, watching them snog.
He trudges back to the front garden. Ignores the pain in his chest, a hard throb like the one time he got stomped by Ronald with his cleats. Almost wishes it were so simple cos in a fight Esca could just punch back. For now though, all he can do is make a fist against his mouth and frown into it.
Fuck’s sake. Doesn’t know why he’s gone all upset, anyway. Just knows that-for all of his daft naiveté-Marcus doesn’t let down his guard easily. He might tolerate Kirby and the other footballers, and he might be fond of his uncle, but Esca could swear he only let himself look so rumpled and grouchy around one person: him.
Well, and Cottia makes two.
-----
Esca doesn’t dwell on the morning’s events, though. He’s too busy, and besides, what’s the big deal if Marcus has friends other than Esca? It’s a good thing, innit? Healthy, like.
So Esca throws himself into the day’s jobs: laundry, carpet-beating, a quick lunch in the kitchens with Sasstica putting him to work, Esca’s grilled cheese clamped between his teeth as he peels carrots.
He wants to get everything done before it’s too long in the day. Doesn’t know what Marcus has planned, doesn’t know when he’ll need Esca to be free. So Esca makes sure he’ll be free.
“Oi, Esca!”
Esca quirks a look over his shoulder, arms laden with groceries as a high-pitched buzz approaches, growing louder.
Oh, Jesus. It’s Liathan, riding up on his naff mini-moto.
“Fuck’s sake, Liathan!” Esca calls, turning ‘round to face him, walking backwards. “I thought the plod nicked that stupid thing!”
“Well, I bought ‘nother one, didn’t I?” Liathan slows down, pulling up to the kerb.
“Waste’a your money.”
Beside him, Arnold-the driver-nudges Esca in the shoulder. “Shall I?” he asks, beckoning for the groceries with white-gloved hands.
Esca hands them over with a polite thanks, mate. In the street, Liathan clambers off his toy bike, then drops it onto the Aquila lawn. Claps his hands against his thighs, like he’s wiping off dirt.
“You’re a waste of my money,” Liathan says, coming over to shove the side of Esca’s face.
Esca bats him off. “The fuck? I don’t use none’a your dosh.”
“You are tonight. It’s your birthday, innit? Since I’m the number one most amazing, wonder-filly mate in the entire bloody world, I came to give you your present.”
Esca snorts, looking Liathan up and down. He’s wearing his Louis Vuitton trainers, navy tracksuit, and a white vest full of holes; no bloody present in sight.
“I don’t see nuffink. You come all this way just to bother me at work? I’m busy,” Esca says, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, yeah. Busy being the dago’s little bitch,” Liathan says, swinging an arm around Esca’s shoulders. “I remember. But come on, now. It’s your fucking sixteenth. Let me surprise you. Won’t take but an hour or two, maybe.”
“I dunno,” Esca says. “Depends wot it is. If you’re buying me another lapdance like last year, you can ride your little buzz-mobile right on home, cos that was a shite idea.” He shudders, remembering the dancer’s fake tits bouncing against his chest. She kept trying to make Esca touch them; horrified, he had to claim poison ivy to keep his hands safe. “‘Sides, I’m supposed to do something with Marcus tonight,” he adds casually.
“Oooh,” Liathan says, waggling his fingers in Esca’s face. “I see how it is. You’re getting your willy rubbed anyway, don’t need nobody to pays for it. And with the master’s son, even. Well done, mate.”
“Fuck off,” Esca mutters, though he doesn’t protest when Liathan steers them towards the front door. Esca’s about done for the day, anyway-just needed to put the groceries away, but Arnold’s done it for him.
“So what d’you say?”
“Fine,” Esca capitulates, ignoring Liathan’s crow right in his ear. “But only if it’s for a couple hours. Marcus was waiting for me to finish work, so let me give him the heads up.”
They enter the house, Esca tossing furtive, guilty looks around like he’s smuggling in a girl or summat. At least Liathan ent being a loudmouth no more; he just follows behind, eyes taking in the Mediterranean-influenced home-its wide, open corridors, the potted plants flanking the doors, the clay tile-work on the ground.
They reach Marcus’ room. Esca doesn’t mention his own’s right next door; he knows how much shit that would invite, and he’d rather avoid it all, thanks much.
Lifting his knuckles to knock, Esca suddenly notices something in the corner of his eye.
It’s a grape-coloured rucksack, lying on its side like a man keeled over. Exactly where Esca left it that morning, after Cottia had dropped it in favour of sprinting into Marcus’ bedroom and attacking his face with her lips.
It surprises him; Esca assumed she left. But come to think of it, he never actually saw Cottia go, or hell, even caught a glimpse of Marcus at any point during the day. They must’a just…stayed in. Gone on with what they were doing. For hours.
“Fuck’s wrong wit you?” Liathan’s voice next to Esca’s ear.
“Nuffink,” Esca says, lowering his hand. “S’just, I don’t need permission to go out on my own fucking birthday, yeah? Come on.” Esca pivots around. “Let’s get outta here.”
Liathan silently pumps his fist in the air, scrunching up his face like he’s tossing one off. “That’s it, brah. Stick it to the man.”
Esca rolls his eyes, but he lets himself be pulled away and back outside.
“Where we going, anyway?” Esca eventually asks, once they’ve reached the bus stop and have fuck all to do but wait around.
Liathan grants him a large, carnivorous grin.
“We’re getting tattoos, mate.”
-----
It doesn’t hurt. Just burns, sort of, like he’s been scrubbing his arm with steel wool-
“Bugger shite, woman, wotch where you point that thing!”
Esca looks up as Liathan ducks away from his tattooist and glares at her.
“I’m only pointing it where you asked, love,” she says mildly. “I warned you, back of the neck would hurt.”
Liathan mumbles something rude, but obediently turns around and lets her get on with it. He catches Esca’s amused expression.
“S’not funny, bitch boy,” Liathan grumps.
“Who says I’m laughing?” Esca replies, laughing.
In the end it actually does bloody hurt, but only cos his tattoo took three times longer than Lie-Lie’s lame-arse Celtic knot. Esca’s ink snakes ‘round his right arm, triple-tiered and coloured in blue. It’s bloody wicked. In for a penny, yeah?
By the time they’ve finished, it’s dark out. Heavy moon overhead, the temperature’s plummeted from a nip in the air to a bone-deep chill.
Next to Esca, Liathan shivers like a puppy shaking off water. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get food. I’m fecking hungry after waiting for you for three sodding hours.”
Esca checks the time on his mobile; it’s nearing nine o’clock. Wonders if he should skip nosh despite his grumbling stomach. He hasn’t a clue what Marcus had planned for his birthday, but if he makes a pit-stop now he’s certain to miss it.
“I dunno, I should probably be getting home,” Esca says.
“To your boyfriend, you mean?” Liathan asks, damn him. “If he had plans or whatever, don’t you think he would’ve texted?”
Esca frowns, checking his mobile again. No messages, no missed calls.
“Maybe” he allows, shoving the device into his back pocket with a wince as his sore skin pulls at the movement. “Let’s get food, I’m hungry too.”
Cos Lie-Lie’s right. What’s the point in rushing home in the hopes that Marcus might toss him a bone? Who says Marcus even remembers the comment he made last night? They’d both been tired. Maybe Esca took it the wrong way, and here he is now, bloody well hoping for suffink that ent ever existed ‘cept for in his own head.
“Your shout, right?” Esca says, trundling after Liathan who’s already underneath the bus stop, bouncing on his toes.
“Yeah, yeah. Use me for my money.”
“Always,” Esca replies. He joins Liathan beneath the plastic awning where they wait to the sound of passing cars and each others cold, huffed-out breaths.
-----
It’s almost midnight.
With a full belly and fingers that smell like pizza cheese, Esca slips back into the house. The corridors are empty, but he toes off his Chucks anyway to stay quiet, padding towards his room on socked feet.
When he gets to his door, he pauses.
Maybe he should check in with Marcus. Knock first, see if he’s asleep yet. He wouldn’t have to bring up any of the things bouncing ‘round his head-I thought we were hanging out tonight, or, What did you do with Cottia all day-long, cooped up in your room together?
Well, that one’s bloody obvious. What does any bloke do in a bedroom with a pretty girl?
Frowning, Esca pushes into his own room and drops the small, plastic bag of tattoo aftercare onto the dresser table. Leans on the edge with two hands, peers up at himself in the vanity mirror.
Bloody hell, he looks rough. Esca runs a hand through his hair, lifting it up, wild and messy, then turns around to shrug off his jacket. He’s careful of the bandage covering his new tattoo as he tugs his sleeve away, gingerly, with two fingers.
Undresses all the way down to his black skivvies. Usually sleeps starkers, but it’s bloody cold so Esca rifles through his drawers and pulls out a pair of pyjama pants, yanks them on.
All right then.
He should go to bed, he thinks, staring at the mattress.
But he doesn’t feel like sleeping yet.
“Damn it,” Esca mutters, turning on his heel and taking the few steps necessary to arrive at Marcus’ door.
He knocks.
There’s no reply, so Esca tries again, this time asking, quietly, “Marcus?”
When there’s no response, Esca cautiously turns the doorknob, pushing it open and poking his head through.
With the blinds half-drawn, the window lets in just enough slatted light to see that Marcus’ bed is empty.
Closing the door gently behind him, Esca sets off down the corridor.
He doesn’t find Marcus in the study. Doesn’t find him in the games room or guest bedrooms upstairs, or any of the bathrooms. Downstairs, Esca wishes he’d kept his t-shirt on a bit longer, huddling his arms ‘round his naked torso as he searches the unheated kitchens and laundry room.
“Fuck’s sake, where are you?” Esca says under his breath, feeling the smallest kernel of worry plant itself into his chest. Back on the first floor, he’s about to head into his room to try ringing Marcus, when something gives him pause.
He turns around, slowly.
At the back of the house, the double glass doors hold reign, moonlight puddling into the darkened room at its feet. A gut feeling pushes Esca towards it with cloying, invisible fingers.
-----
Marcus is in the punt.
He looks dead in there, lying like a mummy under a blanket, his face pale and drawn.
With an urgency that Esca will vehemently deny if anyone ever asks, he rushes down the gravel path and onto dock that juts into the small lake. Leans over, knuckles white around the bobbing wooden edge.
From this close, he can see Marcus’ wide chest rise up and down in smooth, even bellows. Thank fuck; he’s just asleep.
Feeling all a bit silly now, Esca shakes his head at himself and pulls back, vigorously rubbing his sides as a cold breeze gusts across his bare skin and makes his teeth chatter. It’s November now, and rightly feels it-spurs Esca to plant both hands on the dock and stick a leg out towards the boat, where he gropes for a foothold with socked toes.
Esca unsteadily shifts himself onto the punt, arms stretched wide for balance, and leaves the dock rocking behind him. Inside the punt, water slaps against the sides of the hull, but Marcus doesn’t so much as twitch. Bloody idiot could sleep through the end of the world.
Esca quickly crouches and steals the blanket, hauling it up to his chin until he realizes Marcus is only wearing a thin pullover, without even one of his toff polo shirts underneath. His neck looks weirdly lonely without a collar around it. So Esca lowers himself down to the swaying bottom of the boat, pushes aside a picnic basket-spares a guilty thought that it might’ve been for him-then worms a space next to Marcus. Once in place, Esca primly puts the blanket back over the both of them.
Overhead, the stars are out. In Esca’s old neighborhood he could never get a good view, not with all the electric lights everywhere. But here, he might as well be camping. A frog croaks somewhere far-off, its plaintive cry echoing across the lake.
Next to him, Marcus makes a little sigh. He’s probably about to start snoring.
Esca props himself up to his elbows and looks over, where Marcus’ head has tilted towards him, his expression serene. In this blue-ish lighting, he looks like a Greek statue or summat-Roman statue, Esca wryly corrects himself-all manly and straight-nosed, square-jawed. Everything Esca never was. At least he hasn’t got those girly lips, full and plump like Marcus is constantly snogging someone or sucking dick.
A blush warms Esca’s cheeks the instant he thinks it. S’true, though; if Esca had a mouth like Marcus, he wouldn’t have lasted ten days without getting the tar kicked out of him at school, or by Robert. On Marcus though, they soften his face, rounding out otherwise stern features.
He suddenly thinks of Cottia, who’d tasted them earlier today. Wonders what it was like. He’s never done it before, kissed someone. Not properly, at least.
Were Marcus’ lips as soft as they look? Did Marcus have foul breath in the morning? Well, that one Esca already knows; he’s the one who has to wake up the lazy sod. (Definitely foul.)
Still, Esca wonders. He leans in, studying Marcus’ face. His lashes are dark smudges in the night, fanned over high cheeks. Even in sleep, Marcus looks like he’s smiling a little; the natural way his mouth turns.
Esca feels his own go dry. Licks his lips, but the cold air just makes them dryer. And colder. Esca ducks his head down and kisses Marcus.
Mm, warmer now.
Eyelids firmly shut, Esca sighs out through his nose. Marcus doesn’t taste much like anything, just comforting and soft. Softer than he imagined. Esca puts a hand on Marcus’ chest to steady himself, lingering just a while longer before he pulling back. Their mouths make a slick noise as they part, like in the movies.
Feeling rather daft all of a sudden, Esca tries to draw away. But Marcus chooses that moment to wake, catching the hand on his chest and sitting up.
Eyes widening, Esca falls back on his other elbow and finds himself locked in a staring contest with Marcus, who looks rumpled and wild-eyed in his rousing.
“Esca?” he asks, sounding confused.
Esca’s stomach drops. Shit. Was Marcus awake this whole time? What the bloody hell what was Esca thinking?
“Erm,” he manages, trying to reclaim his hand. It’s like Marcus only now notices it, eyes falling to where he’s holding it tight.
“Fuck, sorry,” Marcus says, dropping Esca’s hand like it has a venereal disease. “I didn’t mean to-was I trying to-?” His eyes slip down, away from Esca’s face to hover somewhere around his chest. “Why aren’t you’re wearing any clothes?” he finally asks, sounding bewildered.
“Wot?” Esca looks down. Oh. “I am, you pillock,” he says, scooting up in his seat and yanking the blanket off so Marcus can see his trousers. Long and warm and decent trousers. Bloody fuck though, the air’s trying to freeze his nipples off. Esca yanks the blanket back up to his chin.
“Fuck’s sake, didn’t you bring any more blankets?”
Marcus draws his knees up under his arms as he sends Esca a truly heroic eye-roll. “I wasn’t expecting to do this at midnight, asshole. Where were you?”
“I was…” Esca wets his lips. “I went out with Liathan.” Feeling guilty, Esca adds, “I was gonna tell you. But you, erm. Seemed busy. So we left. We got tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” Marcus’ forehead wrinkles, eyes roving across Esca’s body, but he’s covered in blanket. So he sits up proper, ignoring the sting of winter against his exposed skin as Esca lets the sheet drop to his lap.
“Yeah,” he says, straightening his arm out to show Marcus the bandage. “You wanna see?”
Marcus nods. Crowds in as Esca scratches up a corner of the sticky bandage and carefully peels it back.
Marcus goes strangely quiet as Esca reveals the tattoo. He keeps an eye on Marcus’ face, but he can’t read the expression he finds there-blank, like Marcus is trying to hide what he really thinks.
Bugger. He must hate it.
“Never mind,” Esca says, feeling stupid, and a little defensive, as he rolls the bandage back in place. But Marcus stops him with a hand on his wrist.
“No, wait. I want to see it.”
Their eyes meet. Marcus looks earnest enough, so Esca obliges, pulling off the entire bandage and tossing it towards their feet.
The tattoo is still greasy with ointment, highlighting the angry, raised ink. It’s all there, though; three blue coils, made up of geometric links, the middle one coloured in.
Marcus rests his chin on his crossed arms and looks at it from there, green eyes travelling up Esca’s bicep like a touch before colliding with Esca’s gaze.
“What’s it mean?” Marcus asks curiously.
“What, I can’t get a tattoo for the sake of being it being awesome?”
“No,” Marcus replies with a small, crooked grin. “You wouldn’t do that. It would have to mean something.” He doesn’t say it derisively, more like he’s stating a fact. Esca supposes it’s true.
“This one here,” he says, pointing to the middle band. “Thas me.” Points to the top band. “Those are my parents.” The bottom. “My brothers.”
Marcus bites his lower lip, chewing on it thoughtfully before he asks, “Where are they now?”
Esca expects the question. He used to get it all the time, before learning to avoid it at all costs.
What are you doing for Christmas, Esca?
Oh, but where’s your family?
Haven’t you got a family?
He also expects the question to hurt, but it doesn’t, not from Marcus. There’s no pity in his voice. Esca’s relieved.
“They’re dead. There was…an accident, when I was ten. House burned down. I wasn’t home. I don’t even remember where I was. But it wasn’t home. Mum and Da, Ken and Mack, though; they were there.” Esca waits for the usual feelings to rush in-for his throat to close up and the anger to ignite-but it’s strange; nothing happens. He just feels cold inside, a little empty.
“I don’t even remember what I was doing at the time,” Esca adds thoughtfully. He looks up at Marcus, searching his face for disappointment or disgust. “Is that horrible? That I, alone, was spared, but I can’t even remember what saved me?”
“No,” Marcus says simply, his green eyes gone fierce and protective. What, of Esca? He’s got it all wrong; Esca ent the one who needs protecting. He ent the one who died that day. No, that would be everyone else, yeah?
“Mack was eight, and Ken, fourteen,” Esca says. God, he hasn’t said their names aloud in years. And now it’s like he can’t stop. “They said Mack tried to hide under the bed, which makes sense cos he used to get so scared of the closet in our room. Probably cos I used to duck inside there and bang on it, pretending to be a monster or summat.
“And Ken, he jumped out the third-story window. Landed on his neck, the fucking idiot. We had a fucking tree right outside the bedroom, he could’a just jumped onto it. Never had any common sense, nevermind how bloody smart he was.”
Esca looks up now, wishing Marcus could remember them too. He’s tired of being the only one who does.
“Da tried to save Mum, I think, but they were trapped in the living room cos the ceiling caved in, right in front of the doorway. They said his body was on top of hers. Typical; she could take care’a herself, but Da always used to be so fecking obnoxious about making sure we was all right.”
Esca swallows, trying to stop the deluge of words spilling out of him. He lets his eyes drift back down to his lap and says, half to himself. “I can barely remember how they look. This was before facebook and the internet, y’know, so all the pictures. They went with the house. And if I can’t even be trusted to remember them-me, the only one left-how can I expect anyone else to?”
Next to him, Marcus shifts in his seat, making the boat sway anew. The water laps at their sides, lazily. “Well,” Marcus says. “They’re carved into your arm now, so there’s always that.”
The response surprises laugh out of Esca. He slants a look at Marcus with crinkled eyes. “Aye, I s’pose there’s always that.”
Marcus nods down at the tattoo. “Does it still hurt?”
Esca glances down at it. “Not a lot. Just sore, mostly. Sore and hot.”
With his chin still on his arms, Marcus tips over and blows a cool stream of air over Esca’s tattoo. It’s chilly, ‘specially with the ointment on it. It makes Esca’s spine tingle from base to nape, all the hair on his arms raising up.
His cock twitches, suddenly interested.
“Stop,” he says roughly, shoving Marcus back to his side of the boat with his knee. “I’m cold enough as is.”
“That’ll teach you to walk around naked,” Marcus grins. “Slapper.”
“What?” Esca squawks. “Where did you even learn that word? And never say it again, it sounds bloody wrong with a Yank accent. Slapperrr,” he affects. “Bloody daft.”
Marcus throws his head back, laughing at the sky. “Oh God, Esca. Please-don’t ever do that again. You sound-you sound-“
Fuck’s sake, can’t even finish his bloody sentence, he’s laughing so hard. Esca snatches the blanket off’a them and swings it around his shoulders, huddling underneath. Marcus doesn’t even notice, he’s still chortling like a right arsehole.
“Fuck off, dickhead. And get me another blanket, it’s sodding cold, if you haven’t noticed.”
Marcus looks over then, his laughter tapering off. Something mischievous enters his eyes.
“I can warm you up without one,” he teases.
Esca’s ready retort dies in his throat. He coughs into his blanket instead. “Wot?” he asks, eyes wide. Cos Marcus couldn’t mean-he doesn’t even. Right?
With small a shake of his head, Marcus lets his mirth run its course until all that’s left is an embarrassed, but fond smile on his lips, and the way he looks at Esca like he’s something new.
“It’s called central heating,” Marcus finally says, leaning over his knees to stand up, wobbly in the unruly boat. “Let’s go inside.” He hops onto the dock, catching himself. Turns around with a proffered hand, which Esca ignores for a bit as he collects the picnic basket and the bandage he’d tossed aside, earlier.
Marcus is still there when he’s ready though, so Esca takes it and lets Marcus haul him out of the punt.
He lands too close, their toes overlapping, knees bumping. Flustered, Esca backs up and looks up at Marcus, who he always manages to forget is so bloody tall. The moon makes a halo out of his messy hair.
“Come on,” Marcus says happily, jerking his head towards the house. He hasn’t let go of Esca’s hand.
It’s scary to realize, but Esca doesn’t want him to let go. Jesus Christ-he yanks his hand back and hides it back under the blanket, using both sets of fingers to clutch the sheet ‘round his neck, like a protective cape.
Marcus doesn’t take affront to it, though. Just sets the course, crunching up the gravel walkway towards the house.
Esca follows behind, heart palpitating-follows him back inside.
He wants to follow Marcus into his bedroom.
Holy shit. Everyone was right.
Esca’s a bloody poofter.
Oh God,Esca mentally groans. Liathan is gonna have a fucking field day with this.
-----
“So I says to him, ‘Why don’t you bloody well come, then?’ and Marcus, he says back-oh, he’s lovely, isn’t he Esca?-he says back, ‘Sure. I guess.’”
Cottia clasps her hands together and sighs dreamily. “Sure. I guess. Have you ever heard anything so lovely in your entire life?”
Esca scratches his ear. “Erm, no?” Cos it ent ‘lovely’, it’s daft. “Your serve,” Esca adds helpfully.
Cottia drops the tennis table ball and swings-and misses.
“So anyway,” she goes on blithely, as Esca chases the plastic ball under the table. “That’s how he asked me out. Why did you want to know? D’you want to come as well? Cos I think we could work something out. Maybe you can come as Aileen’s date. But then, who would Liathan go with?”
Esca nearly bangs his head on the underside of the table, cos holy shit, Liathan’s going to the bloody Snow Ball with his younger sister? Oh, that’s grand. That’s golden.
He locates the ball and crawls out, saying, “I’ll go with Aileen, put the poor girl out of her misery, and as for Liathan he can suck my dick six ways to-“ Esca falls a step back, cos Marcus is standing right there. “-oh, hi Marcus.”
Marcus clears his throat. “I don’t think he should do that."
“Why? D’you want the honours?” Fuck’s sake, WHY did he just say that? He turns to Cottia, praying she’ll start one of her verbal haemorrhages-
“Oh dear, it’s one-thirty. Fawlty Towers is on! I’ll be in the telly room,” she says, pointing up the stairs.
Damn it, woman. “Are you taking the piss? They’re all re-runs,” he says incredulously. When it’s clear she’s actually leaving: “And I won that round!”
“I wasn’t even trying,” she replies, turning around to stick her tongue out, mature like. When she passes Marcus, she sends a cheeky grin and a slap on the arse.
“Jesus-“ Marcus starts, but Cottia’s already vaulted up the stairs. Esca isn’t sure if he’s horrified or amused, so he settles for somewhere in between.
When Marcus turns back around, Esca holds up the table tennis ball. “Fancy a game?”
“Oh, um. Maybe later. I came down to ask if you were busy.”
“Not anymore, I’m not,” Esca says, setting the ball onto the table and laying his bat on top of it. Sticks his hands in his pockets. “Why, what’s going on?”
“Well, I have to buy a suit this weekend. Mind helping me look?”
Esca wets his lips, taking in Marcus’ chunky knit pullover, the pink collar crumpled around his neck, his ill-fitting trousers. There are little whales on Marcus’ navy socks, which he wears with ugly brown moccasins. “I reckon you’ll need the help,” Esca says, lifting an eyebrow.
“Oh, shut up,” Marcus replies, but he’s laughing. “Let me grab my keys; I'll meet you in the driveway.”
-----
“Stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting. You’re just being handsy,” Marcus grouses, craning away from where Esca would be adjusting the back buckle of his waistcoat, except that Marcus keeps bloody well fidgeting.
“Aye, I’ll show you handsy,” Esca says, shoving down the back of Marcus’ head, making him kowtow. “Handsy enough for you?”
“Argh,” Marcus says intelligently. He’s saved from further abuse, though, when the saleslady enters the fitting area, a hanger in each hand. Esca steps back to receive her.
“Here’s the single-button jacket that goes with the waistcoat,” she says, handing it over. “I also brought in the two-button Camden fit that might look nice on his frame.”
“You mean, cos he’s fat,” Esca says, hanging up the jackets so he can slide the first one off its hanger. “It’s all right, you can say it. He’s put on a few pounds since the weather turned cold, aye. It’d be dishonest to pretend we weren’t all thinking it.”
“Esca,” Marcus says in a strangled voice. Esca wonders if he’d knotted his tie too tightly earlier. As for the saleslady, she seems to be stifling a laugh.
“I’ll give the two of you a moment to see which suit you prefer. If you need any help, I’ll be right in the shop,” she says, before ducking back out of the fitting area.
“I hate you,” Marcus grumps.
“You couldn’t live without me,” Esca says, trying to keep his voice arrogant, and not at all hopeful. “Come now,” he prods, holding the jacket at hip-level behind Marcus and making it dance.
Marcus obediently sticks his hands into the armholes so Esca can slide it up to his shoulders. Dusts him off, then comes ‘round to the front.
Bloody hell, Esca thinks, leaning back with a finger on his chin.
Marcus is shaking out the sleeves, trying to make them sit right. Hardly any need, though; they already fit him like a glove.
Marcus looks fit.
“What do you think?” Marcus asks worriedly, buttoning the front. “You’re making a face like Kirby’s kicking the shit out of you.”
“Ey, fuck you, mate,” Esca says, snapping out of it. “The suit looks fine, all right? You look-better than usual. I guess that’s what happens when you ent dressed like a senile old codger, yeah?”
Marcus doesn’t rise to the bait, just turns around and scrutinises himself in the full-length mirror. Turns to one side, then the other, then finally slides his hands into his trouser pockets which makes the fabric pull up in the back, revealing Marcus’ arse. An arse that doesn’t have any business looking so good considering how much Marcus sits on it, doing naff all but watching footie.
Ugh, bloody hell. “Done with the fashion show?” Esca gripes, storming over to the other hanger and pulling off the trousers and waistcoat.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Marcus says, still facing the mirror. “It’s nice and all, but…it looks like I’m trying too hard.”
Esca comes up behind him, looking in the mirror to see what Marcus sees. S’true enough, he supposes; Marcus looks like someone else entirely, like a right bloody model with the black, tailored jacket hugging all his muscles and dipping low enough to show a good portion of the pinstriped waistcoat, the trousers seamlessly tapering off just high enough to reveal his whale socks which, in this ensemble, suddenly seem quirky instead of plain bloody daft.
“You do look a bit of a prat,” Esca agrees, leaving out the part where he looks like a well fit prat. “Here, try these on.”
Marcus takes the waistcoat and trousers and lets Esca push him towards a fitting room. Once the door is firmly shut, Esca lets out a sigh of relief, then busies himself by rifling through a nearby rack.
He can hear Marcus rustling behind him, probably taking his jacket off, and the relative quiet thereafter must be him undoing the multiple waistcoat buttons.
“So, what’s all the fuss for, anyway?” Esca asks casually, breaking the silence. “I know you’ve got a suit already; I had to take it to dry cleaning once. Why do you need something new?”
“You’re the one who’s always making fun of the way I dress,” Marcus says through the door, followed by the sound of a belt buckle jangling. Esca feels his palms start sweat. He probably shouldn’t be touching all these expensive suits like this; not with his damp, paupers’ hands, ney.
“So it’s for Cottia, then,” Esca says, cos he loves being a masochist like so. “She’ll think you’re fit either way. Trust me, I know. She can’t bloody well shut up about it.”
“Cottia thinks Alan Alda is hot,” Marcus says, and that flapping noise has got to be him kicking off his trousers. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in her taste level.”
Esca idly wonders what color skivvies he’s got on. Striped, like the first time he walked in on Marcus? Stretched out and bed-headed, Marcus had been so bloody gorgeous it makes Esca dig his nails into his palm at the memory to keep from-oh, for cryin’ out loud-
Esca shiftily looks about, making sure the fitting area’s empty before pressing the heel of his hand to his groin, willing his dick to stay down.
“Esca?” Marcus calls out.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, whipping around to face the wall in case Marcus comes out. Fortunately, Marcus takes bloody forever so by the time he hears the door reopen, Esca is back to nonchalantly feeling up discarded suits on the clothing rack.
Marcus’ padded footsteps come to a halt next to him. Esca looks up.
Marcus’ waistcoat is buttoned up wrong.
“For fuck’s sake,” he chuckles. “Didn’t you ever learn to dress yourself? Or did you always have a house boy available to hold your hand and help you piss.”
“You know me,” Marcus says drily. “Grand sultan of the Seven Deserts. I used to have two servants to tie each shoe, and one for every button on my shirt, but then I moved to Britain and all I got was you.” He sounds fond, though, and it makes Esca duck his head down, focusing on the buttons instead of staring up at Marcus and blushing.
“You know,” Esca eventually says. “You should just save yourself the brass, wear the other suit. She likely won’t notice wot you wear. We all know Cottia’s absolutely barmy. She did choose you, after all.”
“Thanks,” Marcus snorts.
“But even if she is missing a few marbles, she ent bad,” Esca continues, feeling his breath quicken at what he’s about to ask next. “So…you’re dating, then?”
“What?”
Esca looks up, square into Marcus’ green-grey eyes.
“You and Cottia. She’s been over at the house almost every day this week.” Tries not to let the distress sneak into his voice. “Are you two dating?”
Marcus splutters, “She’s in Year Nine.”
“That’s not an answer,” Esca says, pulling back to tuck his hands into his armpits. “She’s a fine lass, Marcus. You don’t have to keep it a secret from me.”
A cloud of confusion drifts over Marcus’ face, followed by a furrowed brow like he’s thinking real hard. “Why?” he eventually asks. “Do you like her?”
“What?” Esca asks, his eyes going round as plates. Marcus shutters up though, straightening his back and avoiding Esca’s incredulous gaze.
Esca’s just about to deny the allegation, when the saleslady’s voice comes through the curtains.
“Yoohoo,” she trills, stepping past the curtains and into the fitting area. “All right, there, lads? Can I help with anything?”
She’s got the double-breasted jacket in hand, and they have Marcus try it on. The more conservative cut makes Marcus look like a banker or summat, instead of a fashion model like the previous suit. Either way, he might as well have stepped out the pages of G-bloody-Q Magazine. And either way, Esca can’t stop bloody staring. And wanting.
Marcus never did answer Esca’s question. If he and Cottia were dating.
Esca tries not to let it bother him, but it does.
Back | Next
Master Post
Characters: Marcus/Esca, Liathan, Cottia, Uncle Aquila, Placidus, etc.
Rating: Eventual NC-17
Warnings: high school AU so the boys are 16/17
Word Count: 46k (7,100 this part)
Summary: Cottingswood High, Yorkshire. You get all kinds, but as someone who's bounced around Child Services, has a hot-headed chav for a best friend, and gets mistaken for a girl by the daft new student in History, Esca MacCunoval is not your ordinary kid.
PART FOUR: Oh Cottia, Bless
Esca’s in the front garden, nodding along to Combat Rock as he drowns a flowerless shrub with the hose.
Go straight to hell, boys, Esca mouths, bopping his head. Go straight to-
Someone grabs his shoulder.
“Fucking hell!” Esca yelps, spinning around. Just barely keeps from spraying his attacker, which Esca soon realizes is actually a girl ‘bout his age, maybe a little younger, a purple rucksack strapped to her back.
Esca twists off the brass nozzle with little squeaks until there’s nothing but a drip coming out the end. “Scared the bloody shite outta me,” he says, ripping his earphones out and shoving them into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Warn a man next time, yeah?”
“That was a warning,” she says, smiling cheekily.
“Almost watered you along with the bushes.”
“No harm either way,” she says amiably. “Nothing wrong with getting a bit wet, aye? S’not like I’m dressed in a bloody ball gown at ten in the morning.”
“S’pose not,” Esca says, dropping the garden hose to the grass with a wet plop and rubbing his chilled palms together. “So, whatsit you want? You’re trespassing, you know?”
“Friendly bloke, I see,” she says without vitriol. “Well, anyway. I’m here to see Marcus. Is he in the house? I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. Which is strange, cos usually Uncle Aquila answers, but last week he wasn’t wearing any trousers, just a funny dressing gown, and I might’ve laughed a bit at his chicken legs y’see, so I don’t wonder if I’ve upset him…”
Esca takes a step back, taking a proper look at the girl as she natters on in her high, bell-like voice. She’s awfully pretty-blonde hair, sunny as straw and down to her waist. Fine skin like a china doll, her face sweet and round like one too. And she doesn’t seem like one’a them girls who know how fit they are, cos she’s wearing a ratty sweatshirt with holes in the wrists that she’s pushed her thumbs through, on top of oversized jeans with hems that drag in the mud.
“…and I told him, it’s perfectly all right for Italians not to wear trousers. It’s bloody traditional, innit? Like togas, yeah? Well anyway, I might’ve just been encouraging Marcus not to wear trousers, cos he’s well fit, I’m sure you’ve seen. And anyway I think he’ll cotton on to the idea sooner or later, cos have you seen his shorts? It’s bloody well near the same-“
“Sorry,” Esca interrupts, feeling his blood rush to his cheeks the longer she chin-wags about Marcus and how he ought not to be wearing trousers. “You’re looking for him, right? He’s probably still asleep, the lazy bugger.”
The girl giggles behind a hand. “Should you be talking that way ‘bout him? Wouldn’t want you to get sacked or nothing.”
“Why, what d’you mean?” Esca looks down at himself. He’s just wearing jeans and a white tee, a leather jacket. Not exactly screaming prole now, is he?
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” the girl says. “Just that-you’re the gardener, yeah?” She points to the hose snaked over Esca’s left foot. “I just assumed, since you were watering the bushes. Unless, is this a past-time of yours? I go around scaring blokes for sport, you go around watering their lawns. What a pair we make!”
“I suppose,” Esca says uncomfortably. Bloody hell, the girl is strange. “Anyway, I can grab Marcus, if you like. But, erm. Who exactly are you?”
“Oh, sorry. S’too early on a weekend for me to be remembering me manners.” She sticks a hand out. “Cottia. I’m just two doors down,” she says, gesturing along the wide, curving street.
“And what d’you need Marcus for? So I knows what to say to him.”
“He’ll know me,” she says easily. “We got to the same school. He’s been tutoring me the last few weeks.”
Esca tries not to let the surprise show on his face. It’s not like he thinks Marcus is a complete idiot or nothing. Just that Marcus ent exactly Mensa material, neither. He settles for repeating, doubtfully, “Tutoring?”
“He’s teaching me Italian.”
“Ah,” Esca nods. Cottia makes a face.
“I bloody well hate it, but my parents, you see. Completely obsessed with Italy. They met in Napoli, so everything’s Italy-this, Italy-that. Though I suppose, that’ll work in my favour when I introduce them to Marcus-“
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, there’s a school disco in a couple weeks. Marcus is going to be my date,” she says, beaming.
“Oh.” Esca blinks. “Erm, I’ll…go wake him for you, yeah?”
“Oh, you’re lovely,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Esca.”
“Esca…” she says, turning thoughtful. “Esca…the name sounds so familiar.”
“Well, I used to attend Cottingswood,” he replies. They’re entering dangerous territory though, so he sets off for the front entrance, taking it for granted that she’ll follow him, which she does, fluttering behind like a drunken butterfly.
“Oh, I know! Esca MacCunoval. You’re Liathan’s friend, aren’t you? His sister Aileen’s in my maths class, we get along rather well. I’ve been over at the Rhona’s a couple times. Liathan’s mentioned you before.”
Esca snorts, unlocking the front door. “I’m sure he has.”
Once inside, he tunes Cottia out. The elder Aquila is nowhere to be seen, but unless Marcus has completely changed his habits and decided to venture out before ten AM on a weekend, Esca reckons he’s still in bed. Stops in front of his bedroom door and knocks sharply on the wooden surface.
He hears a grumpy noise inside. Yep, definitely Marcus.
“I’m comin’ in,” Esca says, hand on the doorknob.
Before he gets it all the way open, however, Cottia dumps her rucksack on the floor and flies past him in a blur of gold.
“Marcus!” she calls, bounding into his room and jumping onto the lump beneath the covers.
Marcus grunts, rolling onto his back. “What the hell?” he rasps.
As soon as his face is revealed, one cheek covered in pillow creases, Cottia ducks her head down and plants a long, lingering kiss onto Marcus’ lips. Her hair slips from behind her ear, falling in a thick curtain that obscures them from view. Esca can hear them though; Marcus gurgles a little, then pushes Cottia off.
“Jesus, Cottia,” he says, sounding panicked.
“Don’t be shy now,” she says happily. “You agreed to be my date to the Snow Ball. I’m just practising.”
“It’s a dance, not our wedding,” Marcus complains, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes. “And anyway, what are you doing here? I thought we weren’t meeting until tomorrow.”
As Cottia responds, apologising for mixing up the dates but not sounding the slightest bit sorry, Esca quietly lets himself out of the room. The two of them seem plenty preoccupied, and they don’t need the naffing gardener standing about like a right creep, watching them snog.
He trudges back to the front garden. Ignores the pain in his chest, a hard throb like the one time he got stomped by Ronald with his cleats. Almost wishes it were so simple cos in a fight Esca could just punch back. For now though, all he can do is make a fist against his mouth and frown into it.
Fuck’s sake. Doesn’t know why he’s gone all upset, anyway. Just knows that-for all of his daft naiveté-Marcus doesn’t let down his guard easily. He might tolerate Kirby and the other footballers, and he might be fond of his uncle, but Esca could swear he only let himself look so rumpled and grouchy around one person: him.
Well, and Cottia makes two.
-----
Esca doesn’t dwell on the morning’s events, though. He’s too busy, and besides, what’s the big deal if Marcus has friends other than Esca? It’s a good thing, innit? Healthy, like.
So Esca throws himself into the day’s jobs: laundry, carpet-beating, a quick lunch in the kitchens with Sasstica putting him to work, Esca’s grilled cheese clamped between his teeth as he peels carrots.
He wants to get everything done before it’s too long in the day. Doesn’t know what Marcus has planned, doesn’t know when he’ll need Esca to be free. So Esca makes sure he’ll be free.
“Oi, Esca!”
Esca quirks a look over his shoulder, arms laden with groceries as a high-pitched buzz approaches, growing louder.
Oh, Jesus. It’s Liathan, riding up on his naff mini-moto.
“Fuck’s sake, Liathan!” Esca calls, turning ‘round to face him, walking backwards. “I thought the plod nicked that stupid thing!”
“Well, I bought ‘nother one, didn’t I?” Liathan slows down, pulling up to the kerb.
“Waste’a your money.”
Beside him, Arnold-the driver-nudges Esca in the shoulder. “Shall I?” he asks, beckoning for the groceries with white-gloved hands.
Esca hands them over with a polite thanks, mate. In the street, Liathan clambers off his toy bike, then drops it onto the Aquila lawn. Claps his hands against his thighs, like he’s wiping off dirt.
“You’re a waste of my money,” Liathan says, coming over to shove the side of Esca’s face.
Esca bats him off. “The fuck? I don’t use none’a your dosh.”
“You are tonight. It’s your birthday, innit? Since I’m the number one most amazing, wonder-filly mate in the entire bloody world, I came to give you your present.”
Esca snorts, looking Liathan up and down. He’s wearing his Louis Vuitton trainers, navy tracksuit, and a white vest full of holes; no bloody present in sight.
“I don’t see nuffink. You come all this way just to bother me at work? I’m busy,” Esca says, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, yeah. Busy being the dago’s little bitch,” Liathan says, swinging an arm around Esca’s shoulders. “I remember. But come on, now. It’s your fucking sixteenth. Let me surprise you. Won’t take but an hour or two, maybe.”
“I dunno,” Esca says. “Depends wot it is. If you’re buying me another lapdance like last year, you can ride your little buzz-mobile right on home, cos that was a shite idea.” He shudders, remembering the dancer’s fake tits bouncing against his chest. She kept trying to make Esca touch them; horrified, he had to claim poison ivy to keep his hands safe. “‘Sides, I’m supposed to do something with Marcus tonight,” he adds casually.
“Oooh,” Liathan says, waggling his fingers in Esca’s face. “I see how it is. You’re getting your willy rubbed anyway, don’t need nobody to pays for it. And with the master’s son, even. Well done, mate.”
“Fuck off,” Esca mutters, though he doesn’t protest when Liathan steers them towards the front door. Esca’s about done for the day, anyway-just needed to put the groceries away, but Arnold’s done it for him.
“So what d’you say?”
“Fine,” Esca capitulates, ignoring Liathan’s crow right in his ear. “But only if it’s for a couple hours. Marcus was waiting for me to finish work, so let me give him the heads up.”
They enter the house, Esca tossing furtive, guilty looks around like he’s smuggling in a girl or summat. At least Liathan ent being a loudmouth no more; he just follows behind, eyes taking in the Mediterranean-influenced home-its wide, open corridors, the potted plants flanking the doors, the clay tile-work on the ground.
They reach Marcus’ room. Esca doesn’t mention his own’s right next door; he knows how much shit that would invite, and he’d rather avoid it all, thanks much.
Lifting his knuckles to knock, Esca suddenly notices something in the corner of his eye.
It’s a grape-coloured rucksack, lying on its side like a man keeled over. Exactly where Esca left it that morning, after Cottia had dropped it in favour of sprinting into Marcus’ bedroom and attacking his face with her lips.
It surprises him; Esca assumed she left. But come to think of it, he never actually saw Cottia go, or hell, even caught a glimpse of Marcus at any point during the day. They must’a just…stayed in. Gone on with what they were doing. For hours.
“Fuck’s wrong wit you?” Liathan’s voice next to Esca’s ear.
“Nuffink,” Esca says, lowering his hand. “S’just, I don’t need permission to go out on my own fucking birthday, yeah? Come on.” Esca pivots around. “Let’s get outta here.”
Liathan silently pumps his fist in the air, scrunching up his face like he’s tossing one off. “That’s it, brah. Stick it to the man.”
Esca rolls his eyes, but he lets himself be pulled away and back outside.
“Where we going, anyway?” Esca eventually asks, once they’ve reached the bus stop and have fuck all to do but wait around.
Liathan grants him a large, carnivorous grin.
“We’re getting tattoos, mate.”
-----
It doesn’t hurt. Just burns, sort of, like he’s been scrubbing his arm with steel wool-
“Bugger shite, woman, wotch where you point that thing!”
Esca looks up as Liathan ducks away from his tattooist and glares at her.
“I’m only pointing it where you asked, love,” she says mildly. “I warned you, back of the neck would hurt.”
Liathan mumbles something rude, but obediently turns around and lets her get on with it. He catches Esca’s amused expression.
“S’not funny, bitch boy,” Liathan grumps.
“Who says I’m laughing?” Esca replies, laughing.
In the end it actually does bloody hurt, but only cos his tattoo took three times longer than Lie-Lie’s lame-arse Celtic knot. Esca’s ink snakes ‘round his right arm, triple-tiered and coloured in blue. It’s bloody wicked. In for a penny, yeah?
By the time they’ve finished, it’s dark out. Heavy moon overhead, the temperature’s plummeted from a nip in the air to a bone-deep chill.
Next to Esca, Liathan shivers like a puppy shaking off water. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get food. I’m fecking hungry after waiting for you for three sodding hours.”
Esca checks the time on his mobile; it’s nearing nine o’clock. Wonders if he should skip nosh despite his grumbling stomach. He hasn’t a clue what Marcus had planned for his birthday, but if he makes a pit-stop now he’s certain to miss it.
“I dunno, I should probably be getting home,” Esca says.
“To your boyfriend, you mean?” Liathan asks, damn him. “If he had plans or whatever, don’t you think he would’ve texted?”
Esca frowns, checking his mobile again. No messages, no missed calls.
“Maybe” he allows, shoving the device into his back pocket with a wince as his sore skin pulls at the movement. “Let’s get food, I’m hungry too.”
Cos Lie-Lie’s right. What’s the point in rushing home in the hopes that Marcus might toss him a bone? Who says Marcus even remembers the comment he made last night? They’d both been tired. Maybe Esca took it the wrong way, and here he is now, bloody well hoping for suffink that ent ever existed ‘cept for in his own head.
“Your shout, right?” Esca says, trundling after Liathan who’s already underneath the bus stop, bouncing on his toes.
“Yeah, yeah. Use me for my money.”
“Always,” Esca replies. He joins Liathan beneath the plastic awning where they wait to the sound of passing cars and each others cold, huffed-out breaths.
-----
It’s almost midnight.
With a full belly and fingers that smell like pizza cheese, Esca slips back into the house. The corridors are empty, but he toes off his Chucks anyway to stay quiet, padding towards his room on socked feet.
When he gets to his door, he pauses.
Maybe he should check in with Marcus. Knock first, see if he’s asleep yet. He wouldn’t have to bring up any of the things bouncing ‘round his head-I thought we were hanging out tonight, or, What did you do with Cottia all day-long, cooped up in your room together?
Well, that one’s bloody obvious. What does any bloke do in a bedroom with a pretty girl?
Frowning, Esca pushes into his own room and drops the small, plastic bag of tattoo aftercare onto the dresser table. Leans on the edge with two hands, peers up at himself in the vanity mirror.
Bloody hell, he looks rough. Esca runs a hand through his hair, lifting it up, wild and messy, then turns around to shrug off his jacket. He’s careful of the bandage covering his new tattoo as he tugs his sleeve away, gingerly, with two fingers.
Undresses all the way down to his black skivvies. Usually sleeps starkers, but it’s bloody cold so Esca rifles through his drawers and pulls out a pair of pyjama pants, yanks them on.
All right then.
He should go to bed, he thinks, staring at the mattress.
But he doesn’t feel like sleeping yet.
“Damn it,” Esca mutters, turning on his heel and taking the few steps necessary to arrive at Marcus’ door.
He knocks.
There’s no reply, so Esca tries again, this time asking, quietly, “Marcus?”
When there’s no response, Esca cautiously turns the doorknob, pushing it open and poking his head through.
With the blinds half-drawn, the window lets in just enough slatted light to see that Marcus’ bed is empty.
Closing the door gently behind him, Esca sets off down the corridor.
He doesn’t find Marcus in the study. Doesn’t find him in the games room or guest bedrooms upstairs, or any of the bathrooms. Downstairs, Esca wishes he’d kept his t-shirt on a bit longer, huddling his arms ‘round his naked torso as he searches the unheated kitchens and laundry room.
“Fuck’s sake, where are you?” Esca says under his breath, feeling the smallest kernel of worry plant itself into his chest. Back on the first floor, he’s about to head into his room to try ringing Marcus, when something gives him pause.
He turns around, slowly.
At the back of the house, the double glass doors hold reign, moonlight puddling into the darkened room at its feet. A gut feeling pushes Esca towards it with cloying, invisible fingers.
-----
Marcus is in the punt.
He looks dead in there, lying like a mummy under a blanket, his face pale and drawn.
With an urgency that Esca will vehemently deny if anyone ever asks, he rushes down the gravel path and onto dock that juts into the small lake. Leans over, knuckles white around the bobbing wooden edge.
From this close, he can see Marcus’ wide chest rise up and down in smooth, even bellows. Thank fuck; he’s just asleep.
Feeling all a bit silly now, Esca shakes his head at himself and pulls back, vigorously rubbing his sides as a cold breeze gusts across his bare skin and makes his teeth chatter. It’s November now, and rightly feels it-spurs Esca to plant both hands on the dock and stick a leg out towards the boat, where he gropes for a foothold with socked toes.
Esca unsteadily shifts himself onto the punt, arms stretched wide for balance, and leaves the dock rocking behind him. Inside the punt, water slaps against the sides of the hull, but Marcus doesn’t so much as twitch. Bloody idiot could sleep through the end of the world.
Esca quickly crouches and steals the blanket, hauling it up to his chin until he realizes Marcus is only wearing a thin pullover, without even one of his toff polo shirts underneath. His neck looks weirdly lonely without a collar around it. So Esca lowers himself down to the swaying bottom of the boat, pushes aside a picnic basket-spares a guilty thought that it might’ve been for him-then worms a space next to Marcus. Once in place, Esca primly puts the blanket back over the both of them.
Overhead, the stars are out. In Esca’s old neighborhood he could never get a good view, not with all the electric lights everywhere. But here, he might as well be camping. A frog croaks somewhere far-off, its plaintive cry echoing across the lake.
Next to him, Marcus makes a little sigh. He’s probably about to start snoring.
Esca props himself up to his elbows and looks over, where Marcus’ head has tilted towards him, his expression serene. In this blue-ish lighting, he looks like a Greek statue or summat-Roman statue, Esca wryly corrects himself-all manly and straight-nosed, square-jawed. Everything Esca never was. At least he hasn’t got those girly lips, full and plump like Marcus is constantly snogging someone or sucking dick.
A blush warms Esca’s cheeks the instant he thinks it. S’true, though; if Esca had a mouth like Marcus, he wouldn’t have lasted ten days without getting the tar kicked out of him at school, or by Robert. On Marcus though, they soften his face, rounding out otherwise stern features.
He suddenly thinks of Cottia, who’d tasted them earlier today. Wonders what it was like. He’s never done it before, kissed someone. Not properly, at least.
Were Marcus’ lips as soft as they look? Did Marcus have foul breath in the morning? Well, that one Esca already knows; he’s the one who has to wake up the lazy sod. (Definitely foul.)
Still, Esca wonders. He leans in, studying Marcus’ face. His lashes are dark smudges in the night, fanned over high cheeks. Even in sleep, Marcus looks like he’s smiling a little; the natural way his mouth turns.
Esca feels his own go dry. Licks his lips, but the cold air just makes them dryer. And colder. Esca ducks his head down and kisses Marcus.
Mm, warmer now.
Eyelids firmly shut, Esca sighs out through his nose. Marcus doesn’t taste much like anything, just comforting and soft. Softer than he imagined. Esca puts a hand on Marcus’ chest to steady himself, lingering just a while longer before he pulling back. Their mouths make a slick noise as they part, like in the movies.
Feeling rather daft all of a sudden, Esca tries to draw away. But Marcus chooses that moment to wake, catching the hand on his chest and sitting up.
Eyes widening, Esca falls back on his other elbow and finds himself locked in a staring contest with Marcus, who looks rumpled and wild-eyed in his rousing.
“Esca?” he asks, sounding confused.
Esca’s stomach drops. Shit. Was Marcus awake this whole time? What the bloody hell what was Esca thinking?
“Erm,” he manages, trying to reclaim his hand. It’s like Marcus only now notices it, eyes falling to where he’s holding it tight.
“Fuck, sorry,” Marcus says, dropping Esca’s hand like it has a venereal disease. “I didn’t mean to-was I trying to-?” His eyes slip down, away from Esca’s face to hover somewhere around his chest. “Why aren’t you’re wearing any clothes?” he finally asks, sounding bewildered.
“Wot?” Esca looks down. Oh. “I am, you pillock,” he says, scooting up in his seat and yanking the blanket off so Marcus can see his trousers. Long and warm and decent trousers. Bloody fuck though, the air’s trying to freeze his nipples off. Esca yanks the blanket back up to his chin.
“Fuck’s sake, didn’t you bring any more blankets?”
Marcus draws his knees up under his arms as he sends Esca a truly heroic eye-roll. “I wasn’t expecting to do this at midnight, asshole. Where were you?”
“I was…” Esca wets his lips. “I went out with Liathan.” Feeling guilty, Esca adds, “I was gonna tell you. But you, erm. Seemed busy. So we left. We got tattoos.”
“Tattoos?” Marcus’ forehead wrinkles, eyes roving across Esca’s body, but he’s covered in blanket. So he sits up proper, ignoring the sting of winter against his exposed skin as Esca lets the sheet drop to his lap.
“Yeah,” he says, straightening his arm out to show Marcus the bandage. “You wanna see?”
Marcus nods. Crowds in as Esca scratches up a corner of the sticky bandage and carefully peels it back.
Marcus goes strangely quiet as Esca reveals the tattoo. He keeps an eye on Marcus’ face, but he can’t read the expression he finds there-blank, like Marcus is trying to hide what he really thinks.
Bugger. He must hate it.
“Never mind,” Esca says, feeling stupid, and a little defensive, as he rolls the bandage back in place. But Marcus stops him with a hand on his wrist.
“No, wait. I want to see it.”
Their eyes meet. Marcus looks earnest enough, so Esca obliges, pulling off the entire bandage and tossing it towards their feet.
The tattoo is still greasy with ointment, highlighting the angry, raised ink. It’s all there, though; three blue coils, made up of geometric links, the middle one coloured in.
Marcus rests his chin on his crossed arms and looks at it from there, green eyes travelling up Esca’s bicep like a touch before colliding with Esca’s gaze.
“What’s it mean?” Marcus asks curiously.
“What, I can’t get a tattoo for the sake of being it being awesome?”
“No,” Marcus replies with a small, crooked grin. “You wouldn’t do that. It would have to mean something.” He doesn’t say it derisively, more like he’s stating a fact. Esca supposes it’s true.
“This one here,” he says, pointing to the middle band. “Thas me.” Points to the top band. “Those are my parents.” The bottom. “My brothers.”
Marcus bites his lower lip, chewing on it thoughtfully before he asks, “Where are they now?”
Esca expects the question. He used to get it all the time, before learning to avoid it at all costs.
What are you doing for Christmas, Esca?
Oh, but where’s your family?
Haven’t you got a family?
He also expects the question to hurt, but it doesn’t, not from Marcus. There’s no pity in his voice. Esca’s relieved.
“They’re dead. There was…an accident, when I was ten. House burned down. I wasn’t home. I don’t even remember where I was. But it wasn’t home. Mum and Da, Ken and Mack, though; they were there.” Esca waits for the usual feelings to rush in-for his throat to close up and the anger to ignite-but it’s strange; nothing happens. He just feels cold inside, a little empty.
“I don’t even remember what I was doing at the time,” Esca adds thoughtfully. He looks up at Marcus, searching his face for disappointment or disgust. “Is that horrible? That I, alone, was spared, but I can’t even remember what saved me?”
“No,” Marcus says simply, his green eyes gone fierce and protective. What, of Esca? He’s got it all wrong; Esca ent the one who needs protecting. He ent the one who died that day. No, that would be everyone else, yeah?
“Mack was eight, and Ken, fourteen,” Esca says. God, he hasn’t said their names aloud in years. And now it’s like he can’t stop. “They said Mack tried to hide under the bed, which makes sense cos he used to get so scared of the closet in our room. Probably cos I used to duck inside there and bang on it, pretending to be a monster or summat.
“And Ken, he jumped out the third-story window. Landed on his neck, the fucking idiot. We had a fucking tree right outside the bedroom, he could’a just jumped onto it. Never had any common sense, nevermind how bloody smart he was.”
Esca looks up now, wishing Marcus could remember them too. He’s tired of being the only one who does.
“Da tried to save Mum, I think, but they were trapped in the living room cos the ceiling caved in, right in front of the doorway. They said his body was on top of hers. Typical; she could take care’a herself, but Da always used to be so fecking obnoxious about making sure we was all right.”
Esca swallows, trying to stop the deluge of words spilling out of him. He lets his eyes drift back down to his lap and says, half to himself. “I can barely remember how they look. This was before facebook and the internet, y’know, so all the pictures. They went with the house. And if I can’t even be trusted to remember them-me, the only one left-how can I expect anyone else to?”
Next to him, Marcus shifts in his seat, making the boat sway anew. The water laps at their sides, lazily. “Well,” Marcus says. “They’re carved into your arm now, so there’s always that.”
The response surprises laugh out of Esca. He slants a look at Marcus with crinkled eyes. “Aye, I s’pose there’s always that.”
Marcus nods down at the tattoo. “Does it still hurt?”
Esca glances down at it. “Not a lot. Just sore, mostly. Sore and hot.”
With his chin still on his arms, Marcus tips over and blows a cool stream of air over Esca’s tattoo. It’s chilly, ‘specially with the ointment on it. It makes Esca’s spine tingle from base to nape, all the hair on his arms raising up.
His cock twitches, suddenly interested.
“Stop,” he says roughly, shoving Marcus back to his side of the boat with his knee. “I’m cold enough as is.”
“That’ll teach you to walk around naked,” Marcus grins. “Slapper.”
“What?” Esca squawks. “Where did you even learn that word? And never say it again, it sounds bloody wrong with a Yank accent. Slapperrr,” he affects. “Bloody daft.”
Marcus throws his head back, laughing at the sky. “Oh God, Esca. Please-don’t ever do that again. You sound-you sound-“
Fuck’s sake, can’t even finish his bloody sentence, he’s laughing so hard. Esca snatches the blanket off’a them and swings it around his shoulders, huddling underneath. Marcus doesn’t even notice, he’s still chortling like a right arsehole.
“Fuck off, dickhead. And get me another blanket, it’s sodding cold, if you haven’t noticed.”
Marcus looks over then, his laughter tapering off. Something mischievous enters his eyes.
“I can warm you up without one,” he teases.
Esca’s ready retort dies in his throat. He coughs into his blanket instead. “Wot?” he asks, eyes wide. Cos Marcus couldn’t mean-he doesn’t even. Right?
With small a shake of his head, Marcus lets his mirth run its course until all that’s left is an embarrassed, but fond smile on his lips, and the way he looks at Esca like he’s something new.
“It’s called central heating,” Marcus finally says, leaning over his knees to stand up, wobbly in the unruly boat. “Let’s go inside.” He hops onto the dock, catching himself. Turns around with a proffered hand, which Esca ignores for a bit as he collects the picnic basket and the bandage he’d tossed aside, earlier.
Marcus is still there when he’s ready though, so Esca takes it and lets Marcus haul him out of the punt.
He lands too close, their toes overlapping, knees bumping. Flustered, Esca backs up and looks up at Marcus, who he always manages to forget is so bloody tall. The moon makes a halo out of his messy hair.
“Come on,” Marcus says happily, jerking his head towards the house. He hasn’t let go of Esca’s hand.
It’s scary to realize, but Esca doesn’t want him to let go. Jesus Christ-he yanks his hand back and hides it back under the blanket, using both sets of fingers to clutch the sheet ‘round his neck, like a protective cape.
Marcus doesn’t take affront to it, though. Just sets the course, crunching up the gravel walkway towards the house.
Esca follows behind, heart palpitating-follows him back inside.
He wants to follow Marcus into his bedroom.
Holy shit. Everyone was right.
Esca’s a bloody poofter.
Oh God,Esca mentally groans. Liathan is gonna have a fucking field day with this.
-----
“So I says to him, ‘Why don’t you bloody well come, then?’ and Marcus, he says back-oh, he’s lovely, isn’t he Esca?-he says back, ‘Sure. I guess.’”
Cottia clasps her hands together and sighs dreamily. “Sure. I guess. Have you ever heard anything so lovely in your entire life?”
Esca scratches his ear. “Erm, no?” Cos it ent ‘lovely’, it’s daft. “Your serve,” Esca adds helpfully.
Cottia drops the tennis table ball and swings-and misses.
“So anyway,” she goes on blithely, as Esca chases the plastic ball under the table. “That’s how he asked me out. Why did you want to know? D’you want to come as well? Cos I think we could work something out. Maybe you can come as Aileen’s date. But then, who would Liathan go with?”
Esca nearly bangs his head on the underside of the table, cos holy shit, Liathan’s going to the bloody Snow Ball with his younger sister? Oh, that’s grand. That’s golden.
He locates the ball and crawls out, saying, “I’ll go with Aileen, put the poor girl out of her misery, and as for Liathan he can suck my dick six ways to-“ Esca falls a step back, cos Marcus is standing right there. “-oh, hi Marcus.”
Marcus clears his throat. “I don’t think he should do that."
“Why? D’you want the honours?” Fuck’s sake, WHY did he just say that? He turns to Cottia, praying she’ll start one of her verbal haemorrhages-
“Oh dear, it’s one-thirty. Fawlty Towers is on! I’ll be in the telly room,” she says, pointing up the stairs.
Damn it, woman. “Are you taking the piss? They’re all re-runs,” he says incredulously. When it’s clear she’s actually leaving: “And I won that round!”
“I wasn’t even trying,” she replies, turning around to stick her tongue out, mature like. When she passes Marcus, she sends a cheeky grin and a slap on the arse.
“Jesus-“ Marcus starts, but Cottia’s already vaulted up the stairs. Esca isn’t sure if he’s horrified or amused, so he settles for somewhere in between.
When Marcus turns back around, Esca holds up the table tennis ball. “Fancy a game?”
“Oh, um. Maybe later. I came down to ask if you were busy.”
“Not anymore, I’m not,” Esca says, setting the ball onto the table and laying his bat on top of it. Sticks his hands in his pockets. “Why, what’s going on?”
“Well, I have to buy a suit this weekend. Mind helping me look?”
Esca wets his lips, taking in Marcus’ chunky knit pullover, the pink collar crumpled around his neck, his ill-fitting trousers. There are little whales on Marcus’ navy socks, which he wears with ugly brown moccasins. “I reckon you’ll need the help,” Esca says, lifting an eyebrow.
“Oh, shut up,” Marcus replies, but he’s laughing. “Let me grab my keys; I'll meet you in the driveway.”
-----
“Stop fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting. You’re just being handsy,” Marcus grouses, craning away from where Esca would be adjusting the back buckle of his waistcoat, except that Marcus keeps bloody well fidgeting.
“Aye, I’ll show you handsy,” Esca says, shoving down the back of Marcus’ head, making him kowtow. “Handsy enough for you?”
“Argh,” Marcus says intelligently. He’s saved from further abuse, though, when the saleslady enters the fitting area, a hanger in each hand. Esca steps back to receive her.
“Here’s the single-button jacket that goes with the waistcoat,” she says, handing it over. “I also brought in the two-button Camden fit that might look nice on his frame.”
“You mean, cos he’s fat,” Esca says, hanging up the jackets so he can slide the first one off its hanger. “It’s all right, you can say it. He’s put on a few pounds since the weather turned cold, aye. It’d be dishonest to pretend we weren’t all thinking it.”
“Esca,” Marcus says in a strangled voice. Esca wonders if he’d knotted his tie too tightly earlier. As for the saleslady, she seems to be stifling a laugh.
“I’ll give the two of you a moment to see which suit you prefer. If you need any help, I’ll be right in the shop,” she says, before ducking back out of the fitting area.
“I hate you,” Marcus grumps.
“You couldn’t live without me,” Esca says, trying to keep his voice arrogant, and not at all hopeful. “Come now,” he prods, holding the jacket at hip-level behind Marcus and making it dance.
Marcus obediently sticks his hands into the armholes so Esca can slide it up to his shoulders. Dusts him off, then comes ‘round to the front.
Bloody hell, Esca thinks, leaning back with a finger on his chin.
Marcus is shaking out the sleeves, trying to make them sit right. Hardly any need, though; they already fit him like a glove.
Marcus looks fit.
“What do you think?” Marcus asks worriedly, buttoning the front. “You’re making a face like Kirby’s kicking the shit out of you.”
“Ey, fuck you, mate,” Esca says, snapping out of it. “The suit looks fine, all right? You look-better than usual. I guess that’s what happens when you ent dressed like a senile old codger, yeah?”
Marcus doesn’t rise to the bait, just turns around and scrutinises himself in the full-length mirror. Turns to one side, then the other, then finally slides his hands into his trouser pockets which makes the fabric pull up in the back, revealing Marcus’ arse. An arse that doesn’t have any business looking so good considering how much Marcus sits on it, doing naff all but watching footie.
Ugh, bloody hell. “Done with the fashion show?” Esca gripes, storming over to the other hanger and pulling off the trousers and waistcoat.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Marcus says, still facing the mirror. “It’s nice and all, but…it looks like I’m trying too hard.”
Esca comes up behind him, looking in the mirror to see what Marcus sees. S’true enough, he supposes; Marcus looks like someone else entirely, like a right bloody model with the black, tailored jacket hugging all his muscles and dipping low enough to show a good portion of the pinstriped waistcoat, the trousers seamlessly tapering off just high enough to reveal his whale socks which, in this ensemble, suddenly seem quirky instead of plain bloody daft.
“You do look a bit of a prat,” Esca agrees, leaving out the part where he looks like a well fit prat. “Here, try these on.”
Marcus takes the waistcoat and trousers and lets Esca push him towards a fitting room. Once the door is firmly shut, Esca lets out a sigh of relief, then busies himself by rifling through a nearby rack.
He can hear Marcus rustling behind him, probably taking his jacket off, and the relative quiet thereafter must be him undoing the multiple waistcoat buttons.
“So, what’s all the fuss for, anyway?” Esca asks casually, breaking the silence. “I know you’ve got a suit already; I had to take it to dry cleaning once. Why do you need something new?”
“You’re the one who’s always making fun of the way I dress,” Marcus says through the door, followed by the sound of a belt buckle jangling. Esca feels his palms start sweat. He probably shouldn’t be touching all these expensive suits like this; not with his damp, paupers’ hands, ney.
“So it’s for Cottia, then,” Esca says, cos he loves being a masochist like so. “She’ll think you’re fit either way. Trust me, I know. She can’t bloody well shut up about it.”
“Cottia thinks Alan Alda is hot,” Marcus says, and that flapping noise has got to be him kicking off his trousers. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in her taste level.”
Esca idly wonders what color skivvies he’s got on. Striped, like the first time he walked in on Marcus? Stretched out and bed-headed, Marcus had been so bloody gorgeous it makes Esca dig his nails into his palm at the memory to keep from-oh, for cryin’ out loud-
Esca shiftily looks about, making sure the fitting area’s empty before pressing the heel of his hand to his groin, willing his dick to stay down.
“Esca?” Marcus calls out.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he says, whipping around to face the wall in case Marcus comes out. Fortunately, Marcus takes bloody forever so by the time he hears the door reopen, Esca is back to nonchalantly feeling up discarded suits on the clothing rack.
Marcus’ padded footsteps come to a halt next to him. Esca looks up.
Marcus’ waistcoat is buttoned up wrong.
“For fuck’s sake,” he chuckles. “Didn’t you ever learn to dress yourself? Or did you always have a house boy available to hold your hand and help you piss.”
“You know me,” Marcus says drily. “Grand sultan of the Seven Deserts. I used to have two servants to tie each shoe, and one for every button on my shirt, but then I moved to Britain and all I got was you.” He sounds fond, though, and it makes Esca duck his head down, focusing on the buttons instead of staring up at Marcus and blushing.
“You know,” Esca eventually says. “You should just save yourself the brass, wear the other suit. She likely won’t notice wot you wear. We all know Cottia’s absolutely barmy. She did choose you, after all.”
“Thanks,” Marcus snorts.
“But even if she is missing a few marbles, she ent bad,” Esca continues, feeling his breath quicken at what he’s about to ask next. “So…you’re dating, then?”
“What?”
Esca looks up, square into Marcus’ green-grey eyes.
“You and Cottia. She’s been over at the house almost every day this week.” Tries not to let the distress sneak into his voice. “Are you two dating?”
Marcus splutters, “She’s in Year Nine.”
“That’s not an answer,” Esca says, pulling back to tuck his hands into his armpits. “She’s a fine lass, Marcus. You don’t have to keep it a secret from me.”
A cloud of confusion drifts over Marcus’ face, followed by a furrowed brow like he’s thinking real hard. “Why?” he eventually asks. “Do you like her?”
“What?” Esca asks, his eyes going round as plates. Marcus shutters up though, straightening his back and avoiding Esca’s incredulous gaze.
Esca’s just about to deny the allegation, when the saleslady’s voice comes through the curtains.
“Yoohoo,” she trills, stepping past the curtains and into the fitting area. “All right, there, lads? Can I help with anything?”
She’s got the double-breasted jacket in hand, and they have Marcus try it on. The more conservative cut makes Marcus look like a banker or summat, instead of a fashion model like the previous suit. Either way, he might as well have stepped out the pages of G-bloody-Q Magazine. And either way, Esca can’t stop bloody staring. And wanting.
Marcus never did answer Esca’s question. If he and Cottia were dating.
Esca tries not to let it bother him, but it does.
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