holiday exchange: Make My Wish Come True
Author: anywhat
Title: Make My Wish Come True (or, Why Nobody Tells Cash Anything Important Anymore)
Rating: R
Pairing: Marshall/Ian
Recipient: dimmingdivine
Summary: Ian and Marshall move in together just before the holidays, which would be totally awesome if it weren't for the fact that Marshall is a little bit in love with his new roommate.
Moving in together sounds like the most logical thing in the world when Ian first broaches the topic. It's late, probably around one in the morning, and Cash is behind the wheel of the tour van, spurred on by a truly ridiculous amount of Red Bull. Despite the fact that it isn't even Thanksgiving yet he's got the radio tuned in to some station that only plays Christmas songs. He's crooning ‘Winter Wonderland' under his breath when Ian reaches over and pokes Marshall in the ribcage. Marshall grunts and opens his left eye, glaring half-heartedly at the guitarist who grins in response.
"I'm sleeping," Marshall murmurs, and turns his attention away from Ian, snuggling back into the hoodie he has propped against the window as a make-shift pillow. If Marshall didn't know any better he'd swear he could actually hear Ian roll his eyes.
"No, you're not," he accuses, and his voice sounds loud in the relative silence of the van even though he's barely whispering. "Hey, Marsh, seriously, I have to talk to you about something."
Huffing an exasperated sigh Marshall shifts and sits up, popping his neck because even with the hoodie it's uncomfortable when your head's jammed at a thirty-degree angle against a window. He rubs at his eyes and bites back a yawn, blinking blearily at Ian, who is far too chipper considering the hour and the fact that they just played their second to last show.
"What?" he demands. "What is so important that you had to wake me up?" It comes out less venomously than Marshall intends, because Ian's grin is more than a little infectious; and there's the slight possibility that it makes clouds of tiny, sparkling butterflies erupt in Marshall's stomach.
"I was trying to sleep but I just had like, the best idea ever," Ian promises, leaning in and smiling even wider. "Okay, so, you know how I've been thinking about moving to Vegas so we can all work on the record together?"
Marshall furrows his brow in confusion, because Ian's been flirting with the idea of moving out to Las Vegas for weeks now and Marshall isn't really sure what it could possibly have to do with him. Especially considering the fact that he already lives there. He nods anyway, because he's giving Ian the benefit of the doubt and assuming this discourse has some kind of logical end point.
"Well, I'm going to need a roommate, right?" Ian continues, and he's staring at Marshall expectantly. Marshall nods again and returns Ian's stare, eyes wide and a little bit apologetic because he's still not quite sure what Ian's talking about. Ian reaches out and pokes Marshall in the shoulder, leaning even further forward as he speaks, very nearly moving in time with the words.
"So, what could be better than us? We get along really well and we both know we don't have a problem sharing the same space. You're not a total slob like a few people whose names I won't mention. It's the perfect solution!"
Marshall can feel the hesitation written all over his face and he doesn't bother trying to hide it. After all, sharing a hotel room on the few nights when they're lucky enough to have one and spending months cohabitating in the same space are birds of a very different color. Marshall knows he has a million and one tiny, weird habits that don't surface on hotel nights just because he doesn't treat the road like he does home, and he knows it's probably the same for Ian. Disregarding the fact that they tend to agree on almost everything, and the fact that they share most of the same interests, and the fact that they rarely ever fight for longer than maybe ten minutes at a time -
Actually, now that he thinks about it, it is kind of genius. Ian's smiling at him, all earnest and hopeful, and before he even really takes the time to logically consider every aspect of moving in with Ian, Marshall finds himself blurting, "Yeah, okay, let's do it."
Ian positively beams and Marshall's cheeks go hot. Fuck, he thinks to himself. What am I getting myself into?
*
Cash is the only member of the band who knows about Marshall's super-secret crush on Ian, and that's only because Cash happened to be the one Marshall was rooming with in Dallas when they all got completely baked and then totally hammered before hitting the hay. If Marshall had his way, it would probably be Singer, because while he's kind of a prima donna the majority of the time, Singer kicks ass at commiserating and helping people feel better. Cash, on the other, just makes thinly veiled innuendoes and has a habit of making kissy faces when Ian's back is turned that cause Marshall to flush red.
Despite Cash's constant urging for Marshall to just tell Ian how he feels, Marshall doesn't actually go out of his way or make any kind of active effort to cause himself pain. That would be incredibly stupid.
He's with the rest of the guys and his collective family, dragging boxes up the stairs to the apartment that he and Ian finally decided on a few days ago. It's kind of midway between the neighborhood where Cash and Singer live and the neighborhood where Johnson's house and Marshall's sister's place are, and while it isn't exactly MTV Cribs-worthy, it's still pretty nice considering their age.
Although the calendar tells them all that the holidays are rapidly approaching, it's unseasonably warm out. The sun is hanging, brilliant and scorching yellow in the almost astoundingly clear sky and Marshall can feel sweat condensing on his temples and between his shoulder blades while he and Cash unload the remainder of the van.
Johnson and Ian are carrying a gargantuan box full of DVDs and videogames up the stairs, grinning and laughing to one another. They stop halfway up and Johnson rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, brushing his hair out of his eyes while Ian shimmies out of his shirt entirely, tucking it into his back pocket. Marshall, much to his embarrassment, actually stops what he's doing and watches, eyes glued to the sunlit planes of Ian's stomach, the sharp angles of his shoulders. He nearly jumps into the air when Cash pats him, hard, on the back, and laughs.
"Oh, man," Cash teases. "You're in deep shit, Alex Marshall."
Marshall groans and picks up a boxful of clothes. For once in his life, Cash might actually be right.
"This is incredibly stupid, isn't it?" Marshall asks, and forces himself not to look longingly in the direction that Ian and Johnson disappeared in.
"Yeah, pretty much," Cash states, clapping Marshall on the back once more before grabbing a box labeled, PORN HAHA LOSERS and leading the way over to the staircase.
*
The first night in the apartment is great. The guys end up staying over and they order pizza and play round after round of Guitar Hero. Nobody sleeps, and Cash, Singer, and Johnson all head out in the morning with bags under their eyes and smiles on their faces. Cash flashes Marshall a thumbs up as he jogs down the stairs, and Marshall flushes pink, hoping Ian didn't catch it.
Luckily, Ian is in the process of yawning impressively and rubbing at his eyes. They head back into the apartment, shutting the door behind them, and Ian shoots a lazy, drowsy smirk at Marshall.
Marshall swallows thickly and offers a weak smile back, before high-tailing it to his room and falling down face first on his mattress, which is still void of sheets and pillows. Even with the embarrassment he can feel churning in his stomach, Marshall falls asleep in about thirty seconds flat.
*
According to the alarm clock sitting on Marshall's pitifully bare nightstand it's three in the afternoon when he finally wakes up. He yawns and stretches, sitting up and wincing at the sunlight coming full-force through his uncovered bedroom window. It's different than when he fell asleep, and it takes Marshall's slumber-addled mind a full two minutes to figure out that the scent of something akin to cinnamon is wafting through the air. Stumbling into the hallway, Marshall's eyes go wide when he pokes his head into the tiny apartment kitchen.
Ian's humming to himself while he leans over the stove, clad in a pair of pajama pants and a white tank top that's nearly see-through it's worn so thin from wear. Marshall's halfway to hooking his chin over Ian's shoulder before he remembers that they're not actually in a relationship.
"Hey, man, what're you doing?" he asks, coughing when he hears how rough his voice is. Ian glances over his shoulder, grinning.
"Making you the best breakfast you'll ever eat," he replies and Marshall almost laughs. It's a well-known fact that Ian really can't cook. He can manage simple things like macaroni and cheese, but Marshall's pretty sure everybody remembers the infamous Rice Krispie treat fiasco and the consequential warning notice from the fire department.
"Oh really?" Marshall says, flopping down at their foldout card table and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "What would that be?"
Beaming, Ian turns, holding out a Styrofoam plate of lopsided, circular things that Marshall's almost positive were pancakes at some point in their slightly charred existence. Setting the plate down with a spatula next to it, Ian grabs two more plates and hands one to Marshall, announcing, "These, my friend, are my mom's patented gingerbread pancakes."
He dishes one of the pancakes onto Marshall's plate, and then two onto his own. "Try them," Ian urges, "I promise you'll never settle for buttermilk again."
Marshall smirks and cuts into the pancake with a plastic fork, shoveling a bite into his mouth. They're only partially burnt, after all, and underneath the smoky flavor they are actually quite delicious. He tells Ian the latter part, and it's totally worth the crunchy bite he takes next to see the resounding smile on Ian's face.
*
It's been two weeks since they moved in, and everything is going way better than Marshall had originally thought. Granted, there've been multiple occasions when Marshall's had to excuse himself from Ian's company to take a cold shower, but still. He and Ian really do get along almost perfectly. The most severe argument they've had so far was over what scent of dish soap to buy, and Marshall had ceded the point because he's not that into citrus, anyway.
Most of their stuff is out of boxes and strewn haphazardly over the apartment, although even with the loads of laundry spread across the floor it's still cleaner than Marshall's room at his parents' house ever was. They put Ian's band posters up in the living room with a few pictures that Marshall had taken on tour, and it's finally starting to feel like home rather than just the place where they're hanging out before they hit the road again.
It's a Thursday afternoon when Ian and Singer come bursting through the front door of the apartment, a long box balanced between them.
"Hey Marsh!" Ian greets. "Singer got us a housewarming present!"
Marshall grins and tosses down his X-box controller, strolling over to inspect their prize. He opens his mouth to say thank you, but when he catches sight of the image on the side of the box, he changes his mind.
"Uh, what is that?" he asks, wrinkling his nose.
"It's a Christmas tree, duh," Singer eloquently supplies. Marshall rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, dude, I can see that. But the box says it's pink."
Ian grins. "I know, isn't it sweet?"
Surprised, the pianist splutters, "But uh, isn't it a little gay?" Marshall winces immediately after saying it, because hearing himself call anything else gay is laughable at this point.
Singer's smirk is devious when he narrows his eyes at Marshall after setting the box down and says, "Yeah, that's why I thought it was basically perfect for your little den of man-love."
Marshall's eyes widen and then he glares, because Cash, that fucker, wasn't supposed to tell any of the other guys. Singer smiles coolly back at Marshall, winking, and Ian glances between the two of them.
"Am I missing something here?" he asks with a bemused smile.
Marshall shakes his head and starts ripping at the box with more force than the task calls for. "No," he mutters, "let's just get this sucker set up."
*
Singer corners him in the kitchen when he's attempting to wash glitter off the palms of his hands with their "Summer Apple" Dawn dish soap. Because as if the tree wasn't bad enough just being pink, Singer and Ian decided that clearly the way to make it more masculine was to dump the packets of silver glitter that came along with the tree all over the entire corner of the apartment.
"So," Singer says, drawing it out slow. Marshall scowls at the soap bubbles on his hands.
"Shut up," he hisses, and Singer hops up onto the counter beside him.
"You should know better than to let Cash keep your secrets for you," Singer states with a truly evil smile. He remains completely unaffected when Marshall's glare slides up to his face, merely snickering and tucking his hair behind his ears.
Sighing and wiping his hands off on his jeans, Marshall whispers, "Whatever you do, you can't tell."
"Oh please, as if I'd do that," Singer scoffs. He hops down off the counter and saunters toward the living room. "It's way more fun to watch you torture yourself by trying to deny it, anyway," he adds, and disappears through the doorway before the dirty dishrag Marshall throws can catch him in the face. It smacks against the door and drops dejectedly down onto the floor with a sound surprisingly similar to the one Marshall's fairly certain his faith in his friends would be making if he could actually hear it deflate.
Shaking his head and fighting the urge to ask, "Why, God, why?" over and over again, Marshall heads out to help unpack the two boxes of ornaments that his and Ian's parents were kind enough to supply.
*
Singer leaves early in the afternoon, begging off on account of a family trip to the mall for Christmas shopping. Marshall walks him to the door while Ian runs off to his bedroom for whatever reason, and is surprised yet again when Singer turns in the hall and hugs him. Marshall returns the embrace, because he's always been down for hugs, and Singer's are admittedly awesome.
"I think Cash is right," Singer says quietly, stepping back. "You should tell him."
Marshall frowns. "What, and have him hate me forever?" he responds, voice low.
Singer gives him a pointed look and states, "I'm pretty sure he won't hate you. In fact, I think that's the last thing he'd do."
Marshall furrows his brow, confused. "What do you mean?"
Grinning, Singer shakes his head and continues on toward the stairwell. "You live with him, man, figure it out yourself."
When Ian reappears from down the hallway, Marshall is sitting on the couch, staring at nothing in particular and wondering what the likelihood is of two people he knows losing their minds at the same time. Ian jumps onto the couch next to him, stretching out so that his legs are lying heavy on Marshall's lap.
"Why so glum, chum?" he asks, grinning, and before he can stop himself, Marshall's smiling back and shaking his head.
"Nothing, just kind of homesick, I guess," Marshall lies while trying to convince himself that inwardly flailing about the warmth radiating from that back of Ian's knees to his own thighs doesn't make him a teenage girl.
*
The day after Singer's cryptic message, Ian bursts into Marshall's room without so much as a by-your-leave and Marshall falls out of his rolling desk chair. He's only in boxers and socks, lying on the floor, face getting redder by the second as Ian leans over, choking back his laughter without much success.
"What's up?" Marshall asks as nonchalantly as he can while he pulls himself to his feet, rubbing his arm. Ian's eyes sparkle mischievously.
"Put some clothes on and meet me in the living room," he demands, still giggling.
Marshall arches an eyebrow. "What? Why?"
"It's a surprise," Ian calls over his shoulder, slamming Marshall's door as he goes.
*
Ian stubbornly keeps his lips sealed until they pull into the parking lot of the Red Robin that's twenty minutes away from their apartment. Marshall glances over at Ian, confusion written across his face, and Ian just shakes his head.
"Nope, not telling," he insists, slipping out of the car and slamming his door. Marshall follows, sighing and tucking his hands into the pockets of his hoodie while he trails along after Ian.
Ian politely explains to the underage hostess that they're meeting a group that has already arrived and Marshall does his best not to look totally befuddled. They walk back past the bar and Marshall's eyes widen, jaw dropping, when he sees his mom and his sister and his younger brother all tucked into a corner booth. They haven't seen him or Ian yet, so he freezes, turning and gaping at his friend.
"You, I...what?" he asks, and not for the first time Marshall curses the fact that he tends to lose coherency when he's flustered. Mouth forming around words he can't remember, he finally manages a breathless, "Why?"
Ian's smiling brighter than Marshall's ever seen, and he sounds almost shy when he shrugs and says, "You told me you were homesick so I figured seeing your family might help."
Marshall glances over at where his mom sits, laughing at a story his little brother's recounting while his sister texts someone, and then back at Ian.
"Thank you," he murmurs. Slowly but surely, he feels himself start smiling, and he reaches out and pulls Ian into a quick embrace before he can talk himself out of it. Even though he really wasn't homesick, the fact that Ian would do something so touching is kind of mind-blowing.
With another smile, Ian takes Marshall by the wrist and says, "C'mon man, I'm starving."
Lunch with his mom and siblings turns out to be way more awesome than Marshall was expecting. It's kind of crammed in the booth so he and Ian are basically pressed together from hip to thigh for the entire meal, and Marshall very astoundingly doesn't spend the whole time blushing and stuttering around his burger. He laughs more than he has in days, even with Singer's visit, and he wonders off-handedly if maybe he was a little bit homesick and just didn't notice.
His mom keeps giving him knowing glances from across the table, even though Marshall does his best to pretend like he doesn't notice. His sister leans over and nudges his shoulder with her own when Ian's wandered off to go to the restroom before they leave - much like his mom and younger brother - and murmurs, "Nice catch, Alex."
Marshall almost swallows his tongue. "What?" he chokes.
But before his sister can clarify, Ian's sidling up and grinning, "Ready to go? I figure since we're almost at the mall anyway we can get some shopping done if you're up for it."
Happy to accept the interruption, Marshall blurts, "Yeah, sounds great!" and ignores Ian's look of amusement as they practically race to the parking lot.
*
A week or so before Christmas, Marshall is tiptoeing out to stick the gift he picked out for Ian last weekend under the completely absurd tree when he notices that Ian's door is partway open. He's headed back to his own room, which is further down the same hallway, and even though he knows he shouldn't, he can't resist the urge to peek. He stops just past the doorway and carefully leans over, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle.
Ian's lying on his bed with his headphones on, looking at his laptop screen. Or, Marshall assumes that's where he's looking, anyway, since the blue glare from the computer is turning the lenses of his glasses opaque.
Because the world is dead set on dealing Alex Marshall the most embarrassing hand possible, he stumbles forward a little bit, overbalances, and ends up with his face and the hall floor meeting with an astoundingly loud thud.
Groaning as he rolls over and rubs at his chin, thankful that at the very least he didn't chip a tooth or bite through his tongue, Marshall's silver lining disappears completely when Ian's door swings the rest of the way open. Ian looks down at him with a fond grin and says, "Having some trouble walking, there?"
Marshall scowls, "Shut up," and holds out a hand. Still smirking, Ian pulls him to his feet. They end up closer together than Marshall expected, and he tenses up, Ian studying him with an indefinable look on his face.
"Just wanted a glass of water," Marshall states, the anxiety fluttering around in his chest cavity causing his words to run together. He makes a hasty retreat to the kitchen and grabs a glass without bothering to even look. Turning on the sink faucet, he splashes a few cool drops against his face and sighs, shaking his head.
When he wanders back to his room - glass of water securely in his hand even though he's not thirsty - Ian's door is shut all the way. Marshall pulls his comforter up to his chin and tries to pretend that fact doesn't make his stomach plummet just a little.
*
Marshall wakes up to Ian singing ‘Baby It's Cold Outside' on Christmas morning. He's standing in Marshall's room, wearing his pajamas and a Santa hat, using a brush from Marshall's dresser as a microphone. Marshall grunts at him and pulls his comforter up over his head.
The singing stops, but there's the sudden weight of another body on Marshall's legs and then Ian is relentlessly pulling at the comforter until Marshall relinquishes it with a whine.
"Come on," Ian coos, poking at Marshall's sides. "Get up, man, it's Christmas!"
"Too early t'be Chr'sm's," Marshall mumbles, snuggling down into his pillow and swatting halfheartedly at Ian.
"We have to be at your parents' house in like an hour, dude," Ian continues, reaching up to ruffle Marshall's sleep-mussed hair. He hops off the bed and adds, "Seriously, get up and shower or I'm going over there without you. Your mom likes me better, anyway," before heading back out into the living room, singing ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' at the top of his lungs and making it pretty much impossible for Marshall to get back to sleep even if he hadn't already given in just because it was Ian asking.
*
When Marshall had tentatively suggested to his parents that Ian come over for their big family Christmas celebration since he wouldn't be able to see his own family, his mom and dad had been ecstatic. As they pull into Marshall's parents' driveway, Marshall starts to doubt the greatness of the idea. His aunts and uncles and annoying younger cousins are all here already and the house is almost as loud as it gets at some of the bigger venues they play.
Ian doesn't seem too overwhelmed by it all, though, just takes the hugs and introductions in stride, chatting with a few of Marshall's uncles about Chicago's sports teams and the weather around this time of year back in that part of the country. They open a few gifts - and Marshall's parents had the awesome sense to buy something for Ian, even if it is just a photo album - and have some laughs at one another's expense, and then it's time for the annual Marshall family flag football game before the early afternoon meal.
Marshall and Ian are on opposing teams, because, according to Marshall's crazy aunt Caroline, "We have to split the strapping young men between us so that we're evenly balanced," which means that Marshall is basically sprinting around his backyard for an hour and a half trying to not-so-subtly grab Ian's ass under the guise of trying to get his flag. Well, okay, so Marshall doesn't actually do it, but he thinks about it, and even that makes him feel perverted enough that the flush on his cheeks when they all tromp back inside is only partially from physical exertion.
The family's starting to fill their plates, cafeteria style, when Marshall's mom stops him and Ian and asks brightly, "Boys, would you be dears and get the good napkins out of the linen closet at the end of the hall?" In the off-chance that either one of them was actually thinking of protesting, she squeezes their shoulders and says, "Thank you so much," before stepping into the line behind Marshall's uncle Bill.
Sighing and wondering how his family got so strange without him noticing, Marshall smiles apologetically and leads the way down the hall. He's just reaching for the handle of the linen closet when Ian chuckles behind him.
"It looks like we've been had, Marsh," he murmurs, and steps forward, crowding a little bit into Marshall's space.
"What?" Marshall asks, half in question as to what Ian's talking about and half because he's not really sure what to do now that Ian's about five inches away from him.
Ian glances up at the ceiling and Marshall follows his gaze, heart leaping into his throat when he finally sees it.
"Mistletoe," Ian states.
Swallowing the uncomfortable lump that starts forming in his upper-chest area as Marshall realizes just what his mom did, he laughs and replies, "Oh, weird. We uh." He clears his throat. "We don't have to, you know." He waves his hand in the - tiny, minuscule - space in between them, as though that's a reasonable explanation. He glances down the hall and adds, quietly, "I mean, nobody's watching so we're, you know, good."
Ian makes a strangled, frustrated sound, and then he's stepping forward, so that he's chest to chest with Marshall, his hands on the door on either side of Marshall's shoulders. Their faces are close enough that Marshall can see the faint freckles on Ian's nose, and his breath catches in his throat.
"Alex Marshall," Ian murmurs, his tone something akin to desperation, "I asked you to move in with me. I made you breakfast. I went to lunch with your mom."
"Oh," Marshall responds weakly, and hopes that Ian can't hear the way his heart is hammering in his chest. Ian smiles and leans forward, and Marshall's knees almost give out when Ian's lips brush his, slow and smooth and even better than Marshall imagined. He's terrified for a split second before he reaches up and hesitantly threads his fingers through the silky curls at the nape of Ian's neck. Ian grins against Marshall's mouth and pushes into the contact a little more firmly, licking at Marshall's bottom lip. Marshall opens his mouth at the contact and Ian shifts to cup the side of Marshall's face with his palm.
They kiss like that, slippery and hot and increasingly desperate, for a long few moments before Ian pulls back, breathing hard. Marshall follows him ever-so-slightly before leaning back against the wall and trying to catch his breath. Ian's smiling like an idiot and Marshall knows the same look is reflected on his own face.
"So, I'm kind of crazy about you," Marshall admits.
Ian smirks. "I know. Cash told me like three months ago."
Marshall's sudden need to find Cash and beat him into the ground is thrust to the back burner when Ian moves forward again and pushes his tongue insistently past Marshall's lips. Marshall's got his hands on the small of Ian's back, one of Ian's palms curled around his hip underneath the fabric of his shirt, and Marshall groans. Ian shifts slightly and drags his teeth over the line of Marshall's jaw, tugs the hem of Marshall's shirt down to bite at his collarbone. Marshall shivers against him and he thinks absently that maybe he'll send Cash a 'thank you' card instead.
"This is your parents' house," Ian murmurs when Marshall grips his hips and surges forward so that it's Ian pressed against the wall with Marshall pinning him in place. Marshall quiets Ian with a kiss and trails his fingertips up Ian's abdomen, brushing his thumb over Ian's nipple and swallowing the moan that bubbles up from Ian's throat as he does so.
"We're in the hallway," Ian tries again, and Marshall knows they should stop, he does, but a part of him is terrified that he's going to wake up any second and he wants to make this last as long as possible. Marshall isn't sure if he says that part out loud, or if Ian just knows him better than he thought, because Ian grabs him gently by the face and whispers against his lips, "I'll still be around later tonight." He kisses Marshall, slow, and continues, "At our apartment." He tugs at Marshall's hair and takes Marshall's lower lip between his teeth, adding, "Where we live alone."
Marshall smiles and sighs, leaning forward to kiss Ian once more, soft, before stepping back and smoothing his hair down, tugging at the hem of his shirt.
"Okay," he whispers. They forget all about the napkins, but his mom is smiling when they sit down at the table, anyway. Marshall grins his thanks at her and reaches under the table for Ian's hand.
This is totally the best Christmas ever.
Title: Make My Wish Come True (or, Why Nobody Tells Cash Anything Important Anymore)
Rating: R
Pairing: Marshall/Ian
Recipient: dimmingdivine
Summary: Ian and Marshall move in together just before the holidays, which would be totally awesome if it weren't for the fact that Marshall is a little bit in love with his new roommate.
Moving in together sounds like the most logical thing in the world when Ian first broaches the topic. It's late, probably around one in the morning, and Cash is behind the wheel of the tour van, spurred on by a truly ridiculous amount of Red Bull. Despite the fact that it isn't even Thanksgiving yet he's got the radio tuned in to some station that only plays Christmas songs. He's crooning ‘Winter Wonderland' under his breath when Ian reaches over and pokes Marshall in the ribcage. Marshall grunts and opens his left eye, glaring half-heartedly at the guitarist who grins in response.
"I'm sleeping," Marshall murmurs, and turns his attention away from Ian, snuggling back into the hoodie he has propped against the window as a make-shift pillow. If Marshall didn't know any better he'd swear he could actually hear Ian roll his eyes.
"No, you're not," he accuses, and his voice sounds loud in the relative silence of the van even though he's barely whispering. "Hey, Marsh, seriously, I have to talk to you about something."
Huffing an exasperated sigh Marshall shifts and sits up, popping his neck because even with the hoodie it's uncomfortable when your head's jammed at a thirty-degree angle against a window. He rubs at his eyes and bites back a yawn, blinking blearily at Ian, who is far too chipper considering the hour and the fact that they just played their second to last show.
"What?" he demands. "What is so important that you had to wake me up?" It comes out less venomously than Marshall intends, because Ian's grin is more than a little infectious; and there's the slight possibility that it makes clouds of tiny, sparkling butterflies erupt in Marshall's stomach.
"I was trying to sleep but I just had like, the best idea ever," Ian promises, leaning in and smiling even wider. "Okay, so, you know how I've been thinking about moving to Vegas so we can all work on the record together?"
Marshall furrows his brow in confusion, because Ian's been flirting with the idea of moving out to Las Vegas for weeks now and Marshall isn't really sure what it could possibly have to do with him. Especially considering the fact that he already lives there. He nods anyway, because he's giving Ian the benefit of the doubt and assuming this discourse has some kind of logical end point.
"Well, I'm going to need a roommate, right?" Ian continues, and he's staring at Marshall expectantly. Marshall nods again and returns Ian's stare, eyes wide and a little bit apologetic because he's still not quite sure what Ian's talking about. Ian reaches out and pokes Marshall in the shoulder, leaning even further forward as he speaks, very nearly moving in time with the words.
"So, what could be better than us? We get along really well and we both know we don't have a problem sharing the same space. You're not a total slob like a few people whose names I won't mention. It's the perfect solution!"
Marshall can feel the hesitation written all over his face and he doesn't bother trying to hide it. After all, sharing a hotel room on the few nights when they're lucky enough to have one and spending months cohabitating in the same space are birds of a very different color. Marshall knows he has a million and one tiny, weird habits that don't surface on hotel nights just because he doesn't treat the road like he does home, and he knows it's probably the same for Ian. Disregarding the fact that they tend to agree on almost everything, and the fact that they share most of the same interests, and the fact that they rarely ever fight for longer than maybe ten minutes at a time -
Actually, now that he thinks about it, it is kind of genius. Ian's smiling at him, all earnest and hopeful, and before he even really takes the time to logically consider every aspect of moving in with Ian, Marshall finds himself blurting, "Yeah, okay, let's do it."
Ian positively beams and Marshall's cheeks go hot. Fuck, he thinks to himself. What am I getting myself into?
*
Cash is the only member of the band who knows about Marshall's super-secret crush on Ian, and that's only because Cash happened to be the one Marshall was rooming with in Dallas when they all got completely baked and then totally hammered before hitting the hay. If Marshall had his way, it would probably be Singer, because while he's kind of a prima donna the majority of the time, Singer kicks ass at commiserating and helping people feel better. Cash, on the other, just makes thinly veiled innuendoes and has a habit of making kissy faces when Ian's back is turned that cause Marshall to flush red.
Despite Cash's constant urging for Marshall to just tell Ian how he feels, Marshall doesn't actually go out of his way or make any kind of active effort to cause himself pain. That would be incredibly stupid.
He's with the rest of the guys and his collective family, dragging boxes up the stairs to the apartment that he and Ian finally decided on a few days ago. It's kind of midway between the neighborhood where Cash and Singer live and the neighborhood where Johnson's house and Marshall's sister's place are, and while it isn't exactly MTV Cribs-worthy, it's still pretty nice considering their age.
Although the calendar tells them all that the holidays are rapidly approaching, it's unseasonably warm out. The sun is hanging, brilliant and scorching yellow in the almost astoundingly clear sky and Marshall can feel sweat condensing on his temples and between his shoulder blades while he and Cash unload the remainder of the van.
Johnson and Ian are carrying a gargantuan box full of DVDs and videogames up the stairs, grinning and laughing to one another. They stop halfway up and Johnson rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, brushing his hair out of his eyes while Ian shimmies out of his shirt entirely, tucking it into his back pocket. Marshall, much to his embarrassment, actually stops what he's doing and watches, eyes glued to the sunlit planes of Ian's stomach, the sharp angles of his shoulders. He nearly jumps into the air when Cash pats him, hard, on the back, and laughs.
"Oh, man," Cash teases. "You're in deep shit, Alex Marshall."
Marshall groans and picks up a boxful of clothes. For once in his life, Cash might actually be right.
"This is incredibly stupid, isn't it?" Marshall asks, and forces himself not to look longingly in the direction that Ian and Johnson disappeared in.
"Yeah, pretty much," Cash states, clapping Marshall on the back once more before grabbing a box labeled, PORN HAHA LOSERS and leading the way over to the staircase.
*
The first night in the apartment is great. The guys end up staying over and they order pizza and play round after round of Guitar Hero. Nobody sleeps, and Cash, Singer, and Johnson all head out in the morning with bags under their eyes and smiles on their faces. Cash flashes Marshall a thumbs up as he jogs down the stairs, and Marshall flushes pink, hoping Ian didn't catch it.
Luckily, Ian is in the process of yawning impressively and rubbing at his eyes. They head back into the apartment, shutting the door behind them, and Ian shoots a lazy, drowsy smirk at Marshall.
Marshall swallows thickly and offers a weak smile back, before high-tailing it to his room and falling down face first on his mattress, which is still void of sheets and pillows. Even with the embarrassment he can feel churning in his stomach, Marshall falls asleep in about thirty seconds flat.
*
According to the alarm clock sitting on Marshall's pitifully bare nightstand it's three in the afternoon when he finally wakes up. He yawns and stretches, sitting up and wincing at the sunlight coming full-force through his uncovered bedroom window. It's different than when he fell asleep, and it takes Marshall's slumber-addled mind a full two minutes to figure out that the scent of something akin to cinnamon is wafting through the air. Stumbling into the hallway, Marshall's eyes go wide when he pokes his head into the tiny apartment kitchen.
Ian's humming to himself while he leans over the stove, clad in a pair of pajama pants and a white tank top that's nearly see-through it's worn so thin from wear. Marshall's halfway to hooking his chin over Ian's shoulder before he remembers that they're not actually in a relationship.
"Hey, man, what're you doing?" he asks, coughing when he hears how rough his voice is. Ian glances over his shoulder, grinning.
"Making you the best breakfast you'll ever eat," he replies and Marshall almost laughs. It's a well-known fact that Ian really can't cook. He can manage simple things like macaroni and cheese, but Marshall's pretty sure everybody remembers the infamous Rice Krispie treat fiasco and the consequential warning notice from the fire department.
"Oh really?" Marshall says, flopping down at their foldout card table and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "What would that be?"
Beaming, Ian turns, holding out a Styrofoam plate of lopsided, circular things that Marshall's almost positive were pancakes at some point in their slightly charred existence. Setting the plate down with a spatula next to it, Ian grabs two more plates and hands one to Marshall, announcing, "These, my friend, are my mom's patented gingerbread pancakes."
He dishes one of the pancakes onto Marshall's plate, and then two onto his own. "Try them," Ian urges, "I promise you'll never settle for buttermilk again."
Marshall smirks and cuts into the pancake with a plastic fork, shoveling a bite into his mouth. They're only partially burnt, after all, and underneath the smoky flavor they are actually quite delicious. He tells Ian the latter part, and it's totally worth the crunchy bite he takes next to see the resounding smile on Ian's face.
*
It's been two weeks since they moved in, and everything is going way better than Marshall had originally thought. Granted, there've been multiple occasions when Marshall's had to excuse himself from Ian's company to take a cold shower, but still. He and Ian really do get along almost perfectly. The most severe argument they've had so far was over what scent of dish soap to buy, and Marshall had ceded the point because he's not that into citrus, anyway.
Most of their stuff is out of boxes and strewn haphazardly over the apartment, although even with the loads of laundry spread across the floor it's still cleaner than Marshall's room at his parents' house ever was. They put Ian's band posters up in the living room with a few pictures that Marshall had taken on tour, and it's finally starting to feel like home rather than just the place where they're hanging out before they hit the road again.
It's a Thursday afternoon when Ian and Singer come bursting through the front door of the apartment, a long box balanced between them.
"Hey Marsh!" Ian greets. "Singer got us a housewarming present!"
Marshall grins and tosses down his X-box controller, strolling over to inspect their prize. He opens his mouth to say thank you, but when he catches sight of the image on the side of the box, he changes his mind.
"Uh, what is that?" he asks, wrinkling his nose.
"It's a Christmas tree, duh," Singer eloquently supplies. Marshall rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, dude, I can see that. But the box says it's pink."
Ian grins. "I know, isn't it sweet?"
Surprised, the pianist splutters, "But uh, isn't it a little gay?" Marshall winces immediately after saying it, because hearing himself call anything else gay is laughable at this point.
Singer's smirk is devious when he narrows his eyes at Marshall after setting the box down and says, "Yeah, that's why I thought it was basically perfect for your little den of man-love."
Marshall's eyes widen and then he glares, because Cash, that fucker, wasn't supposed to tell any of the other guys. Singer smiles coolly back at Marshall, winking, and Ian glances between the two of them.
"Am I missing something here?" he asks with a bemused smile.
Marshall shakes his head and starts ripping at the box with more force than the task calls for. "No," he mutters, "let's just get this sucker set up."
*
Singer corners him in the kitchen when he's attempting to wash glitter off the palms of his hands with their "Summer Apple" Dawn dish soap. Because as if the tree wasn't bad enough just being pink, Singer and Ian decided that clearly the way to make it more masculine was to dump the packets of silver glitter that came along with the tree all over the entire corner of the apartment.
"So," Singer says, drawing it out slow. Marshall scowls at the soap bubbles on his hands.
"Shut up," he hisses, and Singer hops up onto the counter beside him.
"You should know better than to let Cash keep your secrets for you," Singer states with a truly evil smile. He remains completely unaffected when Marshall's glare slides up to his face, merely snickering and tucking his hair behind his ears.
Sighing and wiping his hands off on his jeans, Marshall whispers, "Whatever you do, you can't tell."
"Oh please, as if I'd do that," Singer scoffs. He hops down off the counter and saunters toward the living room. "It's way more fun to watch you torture yourself by trying to deny it, anyway," he adds, and disappears through the doorway before the dirty dishrag Marshall throws can catch him in the face. It smacks against the door and drops dejectedly down onto the floor with a sound surprisingly similar to the one Marshall's fairly certain his faith in his friends would be making if he could actually hear it deflate.
Shaking his head and fighting the urge to ask, "Why, God, why?" over and over again, Marshall heads out to help unpack the two boxes of ornaments that his and Ian's parents were kind enough to supply.
*
Singer leaves early in the afternoon, begging off on account of a family trip to the mall for Christmas shopping. Marshall walks him to the door while Ian runs off to his bedroom for whatever reason, and is surprised yet again when Singer turns in the hall and hugs him. Marshall returns the embrace, because he's always been down for hugs, and Singer's are admittedly awesome.
"I think Cash is right," Singer says quietly, stepping back. "You should tell him."
Marshall frowns. "What, and have him hate me forever?" he responds, voice low.
Singer gives him a pointed look and states, "I'm pretty sure he won't hate you. In fact, I think that's the last thing he'd do."
Marshall furrows his brow, confused. "What do you mean?"
Grinning, Singer shakes his head and continues on toward the stairwell. "You live with him, man, figure it out yourself."
When Ian reappears from down the hallway, Marshall is sitting on the couch, staring at nothing in particular and wondering what the likelihood is of two people he knows losing their minds at the same time. Ian jumps onto the couch next to him, stretching out so that his legs are lying heavy on Marshall's lap.
"Why so glum, chum?" he asks, grinning, and before he can stop himself, Marshall's smiling back and shaking his head.
"Nothing, just kind of homesick, I guess," Marshall lies while trying to convince himself that inwardly flailing about the warmth radiating from that back of Ian's knees to his own thighs doesn't make him a teenage girl.
*
The day after Singer's cryptic message, Ian bursts into Marshall's room without so much as a by-your-leave and Marshall falls out of his rolling desk chair. He's only in boxers and socks, lying on the floor, face getting redder by the second as Ian leans over, choking back his laughter without much success.
"What's up?" Marshall asks as nonchalantly as he can while he pulls himself to his feet, rubbing his arm. Ian's eyes sparkle mischievously.
"Put some clothes on and meet me in the living room," he demands, still giggling.
Marshall arches an eyebrow. "What? Why?"
"It's a surprise," Ian calls over his shoulder, slamming Marshall's door as he goes.
*
Ian stubbornly keeps his lips sealed until they pull into the parking lot of the Red Robin that's twenty minutes away from their apartment. Marshall glances over at Ian, confusion written across his face, and Ian just shakes his head.
"Nope, not telling," he insists, slipping out of the car and slamming his door. Marshall follows, sighing and tucking his hands into the pockets of his hoodie while he trails along after Ian.
Ian politely explains to the underage hostess that they're meeting a group that has already arrived and Marshall does his best not to look totally befuddled. They walk back past the bar and Marshall's eyes widen, jaw dropping, when he sees his mom and his sister and his younger brother all tucked into a corner booth. They haven't seen him or Ian yet, so he freezes, turning and gaping at his friend.
"You, I...what?" he asks, and not for the first time Marshall curses the fact that he tends to lose coherency when he's flustered. Mouth forming around words he can't remember, he finally manages a breathless, "Why?"
Ian's smiling brighter than Marshall's ever seen, and he sounds almost shy when he shrugs and says, "You told me you were homesick so I figured seeing your family might help."
Marshall glances over at where his mom sits, laughing at a story his little brother's recounting while his sister texts someone, and then back at Ian.
"Thank you," he murmurs. Slowly but surely, he feels himself start smiling, and he reaches out and pulls Ian into a quick embrace before he can talk himself out of it. Even though he really wasn't homesick, the fact that Ian would do something so touching is kind of mind-blowing.
With another smile, Ian takes Marshall by the wrist and says, "C'mon man, I'm starving."
Lunch with his mom and siblings turns out to be way more awesome than Marshall was expecting. It's kind of crammed in the booth so he and Ian are basically pressed together from hip to thigh for the entire meal, and Marshall very astoundingly doesn't spend the whole time blushing and stuttering around his burger. He laughs more than he has in days, even with Singer's visit, and he wonders off-handedly if maybe he was a little bit homesick and just didn't notice.
His mom keeps giving him knowing glances from across the table, even though Marshall does his best to pretend like he doesn't notice. His sister leans over and nudges his shoulder with her own when Ian's wandered off to go to the restroom before they leave - much like his mom and younger brother - and murmurs, "Nice catch, Alex."
Marshall almost swallows his tongue. "What?" he chokes.
But before his sister can clarify, Ian's sidling up and grinning, "Ready to go? I figure since we're almost at the mall anyway we can get some shopping done if you're up for it."
Happy to accept the interruption, Marshall blurts, "Yeah, sounds great!" and ignores Ian's look of amusement as they practically race to the parking lot.
*
A week or so before Christmas, Marshall is tiptoeing out to stick the gift he picked out for Ian last weekend under the completely absurd tree when he notices that Ian's door is partway open. He's headed back to his own room, which is further down the same hallway, and even though he knows he shouldn't, he can't resist the urge to peek. He stops just past the doorway and carefully leans over, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle.
Ian's lying on his bed with his headphones on, looking at his laptop screen. Or, Marshall assumes that's where he's looking, anyway, since the blue glare from the computer is turning the lenses of his glasses opaque.
Because the world is dead set on dealing Alex Marshall the most embarrassing hand possible, he stumbles forward a little bit, overbalances, and ends up with his face and the hall floor meeting with an astoundingly loud thud.
Groaning as he rolls over and rubs at his chin, thankful that at the very least he didn't chip a tooth or bite through his tongue, Marshall's silver lining disappears completely when Ian's door swings the rest of the way open. Ian looks down at him with a fond grin and says, "Having some trouble walking, there?"
Marshall scowls, "Shut up," and holds out a hand. Still smirking, Ian pulls him to his feet. They end up closer together than Marshall expected, and he tenses up, Ian studying him with an indefinable look on his face.
"Just wanted a glass of water," Marshall states, the anxiety fluttering around in his chest cavity causing his words to run together. He makes a hasty retreat to the kitchen and grabs a glass without bothering to even look. Turning on the sink faucet, he splashes a few cool drops against his face and sighs, shaking his head.
When he wanders back to his room - glass of water securely in his hand even though he's not thirsty - Ian's door is shut all the way. Marshall pulls his comforter up to his chin and tries to pretend that fact doesn't make his stomach plummet just a little.
*
Marshall wakes up to Ian singing ‘Baby It's Cold Outside' on Christmas morning. He's standing in Marshall's room, wearing his pajamas and a Santa hat, using a brush from Marshall's dresser as a microphone. Marshall grunts at him and pulls his comforter up over his head.
The singing stops, but there's the sudden weight of another body on Marshall's legs and then Ian is relentlessly pulling at the comforter until Marshall relinquishes it with a whine.
"Come on," Ian coos, poking at Marshall's sides. "Get up, man, it's Christmas!"
"Too early t'be Chr'sm's," Marshall mumbles, snuggling down into his pillow and swatting halfheartedly at Ian.
"We have to be at your parents' house in like an hour, dude," Ian continues, reaching up to ruffle Marshall's sleep-mussed hair. He hops off the bed and adds, "Seriously, get up and shower or I'm going over there without you. Your mom likes me better, anyway," before heading back out into the living room, singing ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer' at the top of his lungs and making it pretty much impossible for Marshall to get back to sleep even if he hadn't already given in just because it was Ian asking.
*
When Marshall had tentatively suggested to his parents that Ian come over for their big family Christmas celebration since he wouldn't be able to see his own family, his mom and dad had been ecstatic. As they pull into Marshall's parents' driveway, Marshall starts to doubt the greatness of the idea. His aunts and uncles and annoying younger cousins are all here already and the house is almost as loud as it gets at some of the bigger venues they play.
Ian doesn't seem too overwhelmed by it all, though, just takes the hugs and introductions in stride, chatting with a few of Marshall's uncles about Chicago's sports teams and the weather around this time of year back in that part of the country. They open a few gifts - and Marshall's parents had the awesome sense to buy something for Ian, even if it is just a photo album - and have some laughs at one another's expense, and then it's time for the annual Marshall family flag football game before the early afternoon meal.
Marshall and Ian are on opposing teams, because, according to Marshall's crazy aunt Caroline, "We have to split the strapping young men between us so that we're evenly balanced," which means that Marshall is basically sprinting around his backyard for an hour and a half trying to not-so-subtly grab Ian's ass under the guise of trying to get his flag. Well, okay, so Marshall doesn't actually do it, but he thinks about it, and even that makes him feel perverted enough that the flush on his cheeks when they all tromp back inside is only partially from physical exertion.
The family's starting to fill their plates, cafeteria style, when Marshall's mom stops him and Ian and asks brightly, "Boys, would you be dears and get the good napkins out of the linen closet at the end of the hall?" In the off-chance that either one of them was actually thinking of protesting, she squeezes their shoulders and says, "Thank you so much," before stepping into the line behind Marshall's uncle Bill.
Sighing and wondering how his family got so strange without him noticing, Marshall smiles apologetically and leads the way down the hall. He's just reaching for the handle of the linen closet when Ian chuckles behind him.
"It looks like we've been had, Marsh," he murmurs, and steps forward, crowding a little bit into Marshall's space.
"What?" Marshall asks, half in question as to what Ian's talking about and half because he's not really sure what to do now that Ian's about five inches away from him.
Ian glances up at the ceiling and Marshall follows his gaze, heart leaping into his throat when he finally sees it.
"Mistletoe," Ian states.
Swallowing the uncomfortable lump that starts forming in his upper-chest area as Marshall realizes just what his mom did, he laughs and replies, "Oh, weird. We uh." He clears his throat. "We don't have to, you know." He waves his hand in the - tiny, minuscule - space in between them, as though that's a reasonable explanation. He glances down the hall and adds, quietly, "I mean, nobody's watching so we're, you know, good."
Ian makes a strangled, frustrated sound, and then he's stepping forward, so that he's chest to chest with Marshall, his hands on the door on either side of Marshall's shoulders. Their faces are close enough that Marshall can see the faint freckles on Ian's nose, and his breath catches in his throat.
"Alex Marshall," Ian murmurs, his tone something akin to desperation, "I asked you to move in with me. I made you breakfast. I went to lunch with your mom."
"Oh," Marshall responds weakly, and hopes that Ian can't hear the way his heart is hammering in his chest. Ian smiles and leans forward, and Marshall's knees almost give out when Ian's lips brush his, slow and smooth and even better than Marshall imagined. He's terrified for a split second before he reaches up and hesitantly threads his fingers through the silky curls at the nape of Ian's neck. Ian grins against Marshall's mouth and pushes into the contact a little more firmly, licking at Marshall's bottom lip. Marshall opens his mouth at the contact and Ian shifts to cup the side of Marshall's face with his palm.
They kiss like that, slippery and hot and increasingly desperate, for a long few moments before Ian pulls back, breathing hard. Marshall follows him ever-so-slightly before leaning back against the wall and trying to catch his breath. Ian's smiling like an idiot and Marshall knows the same look is reflected on his own face.
"So, I'm kind of crazy about you," Marshall admits.
Ian smirks. "I know. Cash told me like three months ago."
Marshall's sudden need to find Cash and beat him into the ground is thrust to the back burner when Ian moves forward again and pushes his tongue insistently past Marshall's lips. Marshall's got his hands on the small of Ian's back, one of Ian's palms curled around his hip underneath the fabric of his shirt, and Marshall groans. Ian shifts slightly and drags his teeth over the line of Marshall's jaw, tugs the hem of Marshall's shirt down to bite at his collarbone. Marshall shivers against him and he thinks absently that maybe he'll send Cash a 'thank you' card instead.
"This is your parents' house," Ian murmurs when Marshall grips his hips and surges forward so that it's Ian pressed against the wall with Marshall pinning him in place. Marshall quiets Ian with a kiss and trails his fingertips up Ian's abdomen, brushing his thumb over Ian's nipple and swallowing the moan that bubbles up from Ian's throat as he does so.
"We're in the hallway," Ian tries again, and Marshall knows they should stop, he does, but a part of him is terrified that he's going to wake up any second and he wants to make this last as long as possible. Marshall isn't sure if he says that part out loud, or if Ian just knows him better than he thought, because Ian grabs him gently by the face and whispers against his lips, "I'll still be around later tonight." He kisses Marshall, slow, and continues, "At our apartment." He tugs at Marshall's hair and takes Marshall's lower lip between his teeth, adding, "Where we live alone."
Marshall smiles and sighs, leaning forward to kiss Ian once more, soft, before stepping back and smoothing his hair down, tugging at the hem of his shirt.
"Okay," he whispers. They forget all about the napkins, but his mom is smiling when they sit down at the table, anyway. Marshall grins his thanks at her and reaches under the table for Ian's hand.
This is totally the best Christmas ever.