Title: New Light (Make Me Smile) [Oneshot]
Author:
missninjastarPairing: Tom/Mark
Rating: PG I think
Word Count: 7,200
Summary: Tom has a date with his 'dream boy' he's had a crush on for over a year. He has it all planned out, he'll cook a nice meal for him, some candles, roses, the whole works. The problem, however, is that he can't cook. This is where Mark comes in.
Content/Warning: Strong language
Disclaimer: Don't know them, don't own anything but the plotline and the writing oooo
Author's Notes: I suck at summaries wow. But yeah, this is my second Tomark and look! No angst! It was a lot of fun writing this, even if I did piss off my friend a couple times because he was sending me all these links and I was like 'No. Must get to 5,000 words before I sleep.' at like 4am. But I loved it really. I put a word count in because this is a lot longer than anything else I've written, so. Also, I'm not American, but I tried to use 'American' words like jerk and stuff (It was really hard for me. Like 3 times I wrote the word twat before I remembered American people barely even know what a twat is.) so if they're used wrong, I apologise. Wow this is really long, I'll shut up now. I hope you enjoy it! (Also comments are really appreciated.)
“Mark, dude, I need your help.” Is the first thing I hear when I answer the phone at… 8:17am, Christ. I’m going to slaughter Tom the next time I see him.
“Tom I swear to fucking God unless someone is dead or dying then it is not a good enough reason to be calling me at ass o’clock in the morning.” I croak, voice rough to my own ears, as I rub my eyes.
“No one is dead or dying but I need your help ok? Listen, I’ve decided to surprise my dream boy today.” Tom says, voice so full of boyish glee I almost smile. Almost.
“You mean the kid you’ve had a crush on for over a year now? The one you whine about and pine over and for hours and hours like a preteen girl? The one you talk about all the goddamn time, about how perfect he is and what nice eyes he has and how hot he is? You’re finally doing something about it? Well, Thomas, maybe I was wrong, maybe you do have some form of balls dangling from your body, even if it has taken you twelve months to use them.” I groan as I sit up. I’m too awake to go back to sleep now, even if I put the phone down and laid straight back down.
“Shut the fuck up Mark, it’s scary ok? He’s fucking perfect; I want to get this right.” Tom stresses. “And be careful what you say man, anyone would think you’re jealous or something.”
“Of course I’m jealous, you know I’m only gay for you, baby.” I tease, just like always, before standing up and stretching. Tom huffs.
“Please, you’re gay for any boy with pretty eyes. Fuck it; you’re gay for anyone with pretty eyes.” He sounds pissed off at my banter, which is odd. We’re always talking about how much we love each other and how fucking gay we are.
“That doesn’t even make any s- wait did you just call me a slut?”
“I didn’t call you anything.”
“But you implied it.”
“You know people think I turned you gay?” Tom blurts, tone suddenly serious.
“You know it’s because it’s true?” I counter, trying to lighten the mood again. I hate hearing Tom so serious. Tom isn’t serious. He’s still a moronic fifteen year old, even if he’s physically older.
“Mark, seriously-”
“Tom, c’mon. You know you didn’t turn me gay. And I’m not even gay; I’m bi, so you know whatever these people are saying is bullshit anyway. And I’m bi because I like boobs and dicks, just preferably not on the same person. That has nothing to do with you. That’s just what I like, regardless to what you or anyone else likes. It’s like some people like chocolate ice cream, some prefer vanilla. I like Neapolitan ice cream dude, just give me a bit of everything.” I tell him, walking toward the kitchen to make coffee. I need to piss but I’ll just have to wait until I hang up. Tom’s my best friend and everything, but there are limits.
“So what flavour ice cream do I like then?” Tom laughs, seriousness seemingly gone.
“Chocolate. Gay people like chocolate, lesbians like strawberry. Straight people like vanilla, bland and boring. Being straight is so gay nowadays.” I joke, making Tom laugh.
“You’re such a weirdo, Hoppus.” I can hear his smile now, and I breathe a bit easier now Tom isn’t sad or worried anymore.
“I know, it’s probably why I’m still single.” I sigh over exaggeratedly. I sit down at my wonky table and place my coffee down on it, careful to make sure it doesn’t spill when the table wobbles. Putting my morning cigarette (I can actually call it that, seeing as though it’s fucking eight am.) between my lips. “So come on, Thomas,” I speak around the cigarette as I light it, phone snug between my ear and my shoulder. “What the fuck was so urgent you had to call me before noon?”
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“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes, Tom, I do. I really fucking do.” I watch him darting around his kitchen, opening a cupboard, mumbling to himself, closing it and moving to another one. “You called me a fucking eight o’clock in the morning to ask me what to cook for some dude I don’t even know just so you can bang him. Why couldn’t this wait until, like, a decent hour. It’s still only ten. I don’t remember the last time I was conscious at this hour, let alone dressed and out of the house.” I tell him, leaning against his sink, doing nothing more than watching him in his slightly panicked state.
“It had to be today because I’ll just chicken out otherwise, convince myself not to do it. And I’m not working; he’s not busy and conveniently, neither are you. Don’t be such a dick, Mark. You’re here of your own free will. I asked you to come help me; I didn’t point a gun to your head and force you. So shut up complaining.” Tom argues, sounding mildly annoyed but that might not be my fault. I sigh and look away from him. He’s right; all Tom would have to do is click his fingers and I’d come running.
But not in a pussy way, in a totally manly ‘I love my best friend and would do anything for him’ way.
“Besides, I don’t just want to get into this guy’s pants. He’s not just a lay to me, I really like him. I don’t call him perfect just because he’s hot; I call him perfect because he’s perfect. He’s funny and caring and nice and he has the most perfect taste in music and his smile, oh my god, Mark-”
“Shut the fuck up, you sound like a woman.”
“And you sound jealous. Again.” Tom smirks and I frown at him. “Look, I called you up because apart from my mom and my sister, both of whom I would never ask to help me with a date because that’s just embarrassing, you’re the only person I know who knows how to cook.” Tom looks at me, eyes wide and serious. “Please Mark; I don’t want to fuck this up.” My stomach drops. I sigh.
“What does he like?” I ask, giving in.
“I don’t know. Mexican, I think.” Tom smiles slightly and I walk towards his fridge.
“Ah, good man.” I say as I pull the fridge door open. Inside, it’s bare apart from half a block of questionable cheese, a dribble of milk and three bottles of beer. “I, uh. I think we’re gonna need to go shopping first.”
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Tom runs ahead with the shopping cart, then leaning on it and lifting his feet off the ground, sending him and the cart gliding down the aisle. He narrowly misses a collision with a 50 something year old woman’s cart, and she throws him a disproving look before continuing down the aisle. Tom flips off the back of her head. I catch up to him and he looks at me expectantly.
“What’s left to get?” He asks.
“Alcohol. And cheese. I don’t trust whatever was in your fridge. It was all crusty and shit.” I look at the shopping cart, over half full of ingredients for a Mexican feast and other useless shit like chips and bread and eggs (‘If he stays the night, I need to have breakfast stuff.’ ‘Since when was Doritos breakfast stuff?’ ‘Doritos are a perfectly decent breakfast, Mark.’). Tom’s gone all out, buying the shop out of candles (‘It has to be romantic, Mark. I have to woo him.’ I didn’t let that one go easy. Fucking wooing.), and there’s a small bunch of roses resting on top of everything. “Tom, are you sure you have the money for all this? I mean I know you want to impress him and everything, but all of this isn’t gonna be cheap.” I ask carefully, not wanting to offend him. Tom looks down at the cart then back up at me, face open, and smiles.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I know it’s not going to be cheap but he’s worth it. Even if he walks into my apartment, laughs at me and walks straight back out it’ll have been worth it just to see his smile.” He’s still smiling at me and it’s so easy. This isn’t a side of Tom I’ve ever seen before, so full of unadulterated love, so pure and simple. I can see it in his eyes and his smile and I can hear it in his voice when he talks about this guy. It makes my chest swell and constrict at the same time.
“Well then,” I set off towards the alcohol section. I think I might get some beers for tonight. I feel like getting drunk. “Let’s go finish up so we can get it all ready in time.”
I hear Tom humming happily from behind me and walk a little bit faster.
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“Fuck Mark, where did you even learn to do this stuff? It’s so complicated.” Tom whines as I role up a third enchilada and put it on an oven tray.
“I had to stay with some out of town family a few years ago, you remember? Well, I wanted Mexican food so badly and it’s not as if Sombrero’s was ten minutes away like it usually is, so I asked my aunt to teach me. If you want Mexican food enough, you’ll do anything.” I tell him as I start and finish the fourth one.
“I don’t think I could ever want Mexican food so badly I’m willing to learn how to cook it.” Tom says absentmindedly as he watches my hands.
“Dude, you better not expect me to ever cook for you or this mysterious lover boy of yours again.” I tell him, deciding there’s enough room on the tray for a sixth. “Can you get me the rest of the sauce and the cheese out of the fridge?” I ask, putting the last of the filling in the wrap. Tom slides past me and opens the fridge, pulling out the block of cheese and putting it on the counter, then using both hands to grab a bowl covered with a small plate.
“What the fuck, why is this so slippery?” Tom asks, holding it too close to his chest and using his elbow to shut the fridge.
“Because you got oil all over it.” I say, putting the last enchilada on the tray. I turn around and I know what’s gonna happen before it does. He takes the plate off the bowl and puts it next to the cheese. Then the one hand he’s using to hold the bowl loses its grip and it tips, falling out of his grasp, spilling some of the sauce all over Tom’s floor. He tries to grab it again, but all he really ends up doing is knocking the rest of the sauce up into the air and it splatters everywhere, including all over himself and me. His loses grip of it again and the bowl goes falling to the floor, the last of the sauce flying out before it breaks into three large pieces. I watch it happen; look at the smashed bowl, the spilt sauce. I look down at my shirt, now covered in splodges of enchilada sauce. I look at Tom’s shirt, in a worse state than mine. When I finally look at Tom’s face, he looks shocked, like he can’t believe that just happened.
“Are you fucking kidding me.” He says, rather than asks. And that’s all it takes, I burst out laughing. I don’t know whether it’s how ridiculous the whole thing is, or the look on Tom’s face, or just the fact that this is just Tom’s luck, but it’s like it’s the funniest thing that’s happened in years.
“It’s not fucking funny!” Tom yells, but he’s smiling, he’s holding back laughter, I can tell. I place a hand on the countertop to steady myself, so I don’t slip what with all the greasy sauce on the floor. My body arches forward as I laugh harder, and I hear him start to laugh too. “Oh my god, Mark. What the fuck are we gonna do?” I learn forward further, too far. I feel myself start to tip, and when I put a foot out to steady myself it’s met with the sauce. My foot slips out from beneath me and I fall backwards, straight on my ass. It hurts, I know it’s gonna bruise but I can’t stop laughing. My stomach muscles burn. I can hear Tom’s giggle sounding laugh from somewhere above me and I laugh harder. “Only you, Mark Hoppus.” He gasps between laughs. He takes a breath, two, to calm down, and I do too, but he’s still smiling at me, all fond and comfortable and my heart’s beating fast. “Come on, let me help you up.” He reaches his hand out to me, and I grab it, using one hand to push myself from the ground, but it’s too slippery and my hand just slips and I fall back down. I don’t think fast enough, don’t let go of Tom’s hand, so he gets pulled down with me.
“Ow, fuck!” I wheeze out as he lands full force on my chest. He’s full on laughing; I can feel his body shaking with it.
Eventually he somehow manages to lift himself off of me, one knee next to my hip, the other precariously close to my balls, hands either side of my body.
“Jesus Christ, Mark, way to drag me down with you.” Tom says, face too close to mine. He’s smiling, a real, full on smile that makes his eyes sparkle.
And that was a totally inappropriate thought to have.
“C’mon dude, get off me. The sauce is seeping through to my underwear and it’s making me very uncomfortable.” Tom laughs again and gets up onto his knees.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t love being under my hot body, Hoppus.” Tom smirks, standing up fully with relative ease. I sit up and grab onto the counter.
“Of course I loved it; it made all my dreams come true.” I say, but it doesn’t come easily, it feels forced. I stand up with a lot more effort than Tom. I look at him, standing on the opposite side of the spillage, and he doesn’t seem to realize my unease, just… starts taking his shirt off. Right here, in the kitchen. Cool.
“Ew, this is so gross.” He says, carefully pulling the back of his shirt over his head so he doesn’t get it anywhere else. I can see his muscles working under his skin. Since when has Tom been so toned? “Oh my god, it’s everywhere.” And it is. The sauce has been spread over half the kitchen floor, splats of it on the cupboard doors, the fridge and the countertops. Me and Tom are covered in it too, front and now back. The broken bowl is still sitting in a pool of red. We’re lucky we didn’t fall on one of the pieces. That would have been a whole new mess to clean up. “Fuck, Mark, what’re we gonna do?” I look back up at him and smirk.
“We? I think you’ll find that this was that this was your idea in the first place. Also, you’re the one who dropped the bowl, therefore this is your mess to clean up, not mine. There is no we about this. This is all you.”
“Mark, c’mon,” He whines, stepping over the sauce with his long legs, moving closer to me. “Do you honestly expect me to be able to clean this mess up, cook another meal again from scratch, set everything up and get myself looking all hot and… well, clean, in less than three hours alone?” I look at the shitty clock on the wall. 5:21pm. This dude is supposed to be at Tom’s at 8. I feel Tom standing close to me, close enough that he’s getting a little bit of sauce on his chest. He feels so solid. When I give him no reaction, he pouts at me and pokes me lightly in the ribs. Goddamnit, he knows that’s my weak spot. What an asshole, using my weakness against me like that. “C’mon Mark. Marky Mark. Markus, old buddy, old pal. Mark, be a gent, help a brother out. I’d owe you big time.” He pokes relentlessly, getting rougher and harder until I start laughing, he doesn’t stop. I wriggle under his hands and try to squirm away but he’s being so persistent, so I’ll give in, just this once, just because he needs me.
“God, fine. Shit, you don’t give in do you?” I say, and he full on beams at me, finally dropping his hands, before turning back to what was once dinner. I look at it too, rubbing my abused chest. What the fuck are we gonna do now, how the fuck do we salvage- I reach into my pocket and pull out my car keys. “Tom.” He looks at me, shirtless and dirty. “Get changed, then take my car and go and buy some taco shells. We’ll have to reheat the stuffing from the enchiladas and put them in the tacos. It’ll be a bit shitty but it’s the best thing I can think of in the time we’ve got left. While you’re gone I’ll clean this up as fast as I can and change into some of your clothes.” Tom raises an eyebrow at me. “Fuck you, it’s the least you owe me. When you get back you can get ready and I’ll do the food, then with whatever time we’ve got left we can sort out all your girly shit.”
“Fuck you it’s not girly, it’s romantic.” Tom protests.
“Whatever you say, man. Where do you keep your cleaning shit?” I ask, looking around. Fuck, I’m going to have to move like Sonic to get this cleaned in time. Tom waltzes over to the sink and opens the cupboard under it, full with a surprising amount of bottles of cleaning aids.
“Mark Hoppus- man with the plan.” He says, taking my car keys out of my hand as he walks past me. His hand is warm and rough against mine. I bend down to look at what I have to work with. “Hey Mark?” I hear from behind me. When I look up, Tom is standing in the kitchen doorway, staring intently at the door frame as he picks at the flaking paint. “Thank you.” His face is flushed and he’s not making eye contact. God, why is he so fucking-
“You’re welcome.” He still won’t look at me, but I won’t call him on it. That’s a hard thing for him to do, thank people. I’ll let it slide. He smiles slightly at the door frame, before disappearing around the corner. I breathe in deep and look back at the cleaning equipment. As I pull out an old cloth, I wonder if it’s even possible for this situation to be any dumber.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I manage to clean up the mess quicker than I thought I would. Of course, as Tom went to leave, he saw me kneeling over the pile of congealed enchilada sauce with a cloth in my hand and, of course, he had to double over in laughter, but not before telling me how I’d make such a pretty cleaning wench. He ran out the front door before I could retaliate.
I considered using bleach and doing actual cleaning, but just ended up with a bucket of warm soapy water, a dirty cloth and a partially bald mop. I figured I wouldn’t have the time and besides, I’m already doing enough for Tom right now. If he thinks I’m going to clean his kitchen too, he can suck my asshole.
I took my shirt off in the kitchen earlier and put it in a plastic bag so I can take it home and wash it without getting the sauce all over the inside of my car. The bag’s still sitting on Tom’s table, and after the kitchen is clean I decide I’ve been shirtless for long enough, so I walk down the hall to his bedroom. The curtains are closed and the room is practically pitch black because of Tom’s black out curtains, he can’t sleep if it’s too light. I stumble over to them and pull them open, sun light now seeping in and illuminating the mess. I look around, the bed is unmade, the covers totally wrecked where Tom fidgets in his sleep. There are clothes strewn everywhere, probably both clean and dirty, and there are empty glasses on his bedside cabinet. The air is thick and stale, and I look around and sigh. Tom has a date. If he has any hopes of getting laid tonight, he needs to have a tidy room. I sigh again, turn around and open the window to air the room out.
Fuck, Tom owes me big time.
I push all the clothes on the floor into one big pile and pick it up. Laundry basket, laundry bask- ah. I use my elbow to flip the top up, but it’s nearly full as it is. This boy really needs to get his shit together. I stuff the clothes in there anyway, regardless if they’re clean or not. What’s the worst that could happen, the clothes get more clean? I flip the lid back down. You can’t even tell it's nearly splitting at the sides.
There’s no time to change the sheets, even though fuck knows how long Tom’s left them on there, so I just straighten out the sheets and pillows and tuck the cover under the mattress at the sides. With the bed made, I open Tom’s closet in search of anything clean. I pull out some black-that-has-faded-to-more-of-a-grey-colour basketball shorts that are too big on my waist and a plain black t-shirt that reminds me how much more muscular Tom is than me. Where the shirt would fit snug against Tom’s broad shoulders and chest, the material sags and hangs off of my frame. Out of the two of us, he’s always the one who gets the women, and he’s always polite when he declines their advances. Sometimes he’ll even point them in my direction, but nine out of ten times they only want Tom.
I don’t blame them. I’d only want Tom too.
I frown at that thought and walk over to his bedside cabinet to pick up the glasses there. I’ll just wash them, it won’t take me five minutes, but as I pick up the last glass something falls to the floor. A picture. I kneel and put the glasses down on the floor with the soul intention of picking the picture up and putting back on the side, but when I see me in it, well. I’m allowed to look at something if I’m in it.
It’s a Polaroid; my sister must have taken it. I remember when she got her Polaroid camera, it must have been about a year ago now, and she went on a rampage with it. For about a month she would take it everywhere with her and take pictures of everything. Some were planned, posed, others she took without anyone knowing. I think this must have been one of those. It’s just a simple picture, no stupid faces or inappropriate hand gestures. Just him and me, sitting on the porch steps of my mom’s house. Tom’s looking down at his knees, coy smile on his lips and I’m looking at him, my face profile in the picture. I’m smiling fully, not shyly like Tom, and there’s something different about my face. It’s not like a physical difference, I don’t look any different, but there’s something different about me. Like, there’s something in my smile, in my eyes, in the way I’m looking at-
It’s the lighting. It must be the lighting and shadows that make me look different.
I go to put the picture back where it was, but notice Tom’s scrawl in black ink on the back. I pull it back towards me and read: ‘Mark always knows how to make me smile, even when I feel like shit. :)’ followed by ‘Mark’s the best.’ underneath. I stare at it and feel like I’ve just seen something I shouldn’t have, like I’m intruding. Like, y’know, when a couple have an argument in front of you when they think no one’s listening but you are and then everything just gets really awkward, because you know you shouldn’t really have heard any of that, but you have. I don’t want to feel that kind of awkward with Tom. Tom’s my best friend.
I put the picture back where I found it, pick the glasses up once again and stand up straight, and try to forget about it. It’s no big deal, after all. Just a picture, no big deal.
But as I walk back towards the kitchen, all I can think about is my smile in that picture, Tom’s clothes on my back and his smell on my skin.
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I finish putting salad on both the plates as I hear Tom enter the room through the kitchen door behind me.
“Mark, how do I look, do I look ok? My hair’s dumb, isn’t it? Oh god, Mark-” I turn and see Tom standing at the opposite end of the room. He’s wearing probably the only pair of jeans he owns, and they’re really tight. They would be, he brought them years ago, he's built up a lot since then, grew into his skin. Knowing him, he's probably shrunk them too. They still look good on him, though, maybe even better. He’s got a tight, long sleeved white t-shirt on under a pale blue, short sleeved button up shirt, only the top four buttons done up, in true DeLonge fashion. His hair does look dumb.
I don’t know what to say, can’t think of any words, so I say “It’s too flat.” Tom looks at me, confused. “Your hair; it looks dumb because it’s too flat.” I take two steps forward, around Tom’s table, and wipe my hands on my borrowed pants to remove the grease and sauce, before stepping up to Tom and running my hands through his hair. It needs to be messier, more Tom like. Tom isn’t flat or boring. He’s rough around the edges. I smile slightly. “Your hair is really soft.”
“I condition it.” He tells me quietly, almost like it’s a secret that’s not allowed to leave the six inches of space between our faces. He’s staring intently at my face, studying it. I feel uncomfortable but I can’t look away, so I just watch him look at me. I run my fingers through his hair one more time before dropping my hands, only then realizing how totally inappropriate that was. I could have just told him to mess his hair up a bit.
He’s still looking at me.
“Better.” I tell him just as quietly. I take a step back now, but I still can’t breathe properly.
“So, how do I look now, then?” Tom asks, looking down at himself then back up at me, eyes seeking my approval. I give him the once over and smirk.
“Turn around.” I tell him, and he smirks back at me and obeys. “Nice ass.” He turns back around to face me and smiles. “You look good, Tom. I’d do you.” I say before I can stop myself. Tom just smiles bigger. I turn and look at all the currently unlit candles and the vase of roses (I still can’t believe Tom owns a vase, man.) in the middle of the table. My throat constricts and I tell Tom I’m leaving him to it.
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TV sucks. It’s just the same shit played over and over again, 80s shows still being run on shitty channels. Occasionally, they’ll put something new out, but the chances are it’s just a copy of a copy of another show or another idea, just a different script and a couple of new characters. There are reality shows, but don’t even get me started on those. Even the news is depressing; it just tells me about the troops that died fighting someone else’s fight and people that get murdered. Either that or it’s some celebrity I don’t care about getting a divorce after approximately two days of marriage. It’s worse at night. At least day time TV knows it’s trashy, but night time TV’s just an asshole and pretends to be so much better than day time TV when it’s still just as shit.
TV sucks.
I stare into the mouth of my beer bottle, still half full despite it being opened for at least an hour now. I take a swig out of recognition of this fact, but it’s warm and slightly flat. After I left Tom’s I stopped by an off license on my way home and brought eight beers. Seven of them remain unopened in my fridge.
As soon as I got home I changed out of Tom’s clothes and showered, wanting to get rid of the sauce and the familiar smell on my skin. My dirty clothes are still in a plastic bag near my front door, his are mixed in with mine in my washing pile.
I’ve been in a bad mood since I left Tom’s. I figure it’s because while Tom’s off having dates and getting laid, I’m sitting at home, alone, watching weird documentaries with my good friend alcohol. I briefly contemplate jerking off, but I just can’t be bothered. My stomach growls at me, reminding me I’ve barely eaten all day. I flick up the TV menu, 10:46. I should probably feed myself.
I somehow summon the energy from somewhere to move to the kitchen. I know there’s nothing in the cupboards, so I don’t even bother checking, just head straight to the freezer. It’s pretty bare; a ready-made lasagne I can’t be bothered to heat up, a bag of ice, some leftover meat loaf my mom made me take home with me when I went over there for dinner, but that was months ago now, and air-tight Tupperware container and frozen or not, I don’t want to die. I root around a bit more, nothing, nothing both in date and that no more than one minute preparation, and I’m about to give up hope when I see a tub of Ben and Jerry’s, half embedded in the ice that’s forming at the back of the freezer. It seems like the easiest option and least likely to give me food poisoning, so I smash it free, and pull it out with my now numb, red and slightly scratched hand. I jimmy the frozen lid off, and get a spoon out before making my way back to the nest I’ve formed myself on the couch. I can’t feel any of my fingers, and the ice cream is practically solid so I stab the spoon in so it sticks up, put it on my coffee table to defrost and curl back in on myself.
Jesus, when did my life become so mundane and sad?
My phone buzzes from its place next to my ice cream, telling me someone has text me. I consider ignoring it, but then I remember I have it on some setting that makes it buzz every five minutes until I read the message, which was dumb, whatever made me think that was a good idea?
I lean forward, swearing to myself that whoever it is, I’m going to ignore them. It’s probably just Travis asking if I wanna go get baked with him, which I don’t want, or one of my douchebag friends-but-not-really-friends telling me about some trashy party full of drunk idiots and sluts I should be at when I really don’t care. I used to, but not anymore.
The screen almost blinds me, my eyes got used to the darkness of my living room and the dull light of the TV. I blink them back into focus, and when I can see properly again, I frown at the sender. Tom. That’s odd, surely his date’s not over already. You know what, his date is probably in the toilet or something and it’s just him bragging about how well it’s going and how he’s going to have sex tonight and I’m not. Well, to be honest, Thomas, I don’t want to hear it right now, so I open it just so my phone won’t keep beeping, go to close the message straight away, but I see only two lines, three sentences that make my heart drop, then beat fast.
‘Get over here now. I need you. Please, Mark.’
Adrenaline rushes in my ears, I can feel it in my blood already, it’s causing my hands to shake as I put my phone down and tie my shoe laces. It’s what causes my breathing to shallow and my palms to sweat. But it doesn’t stop the panic from setting in. Oh god, what if he’s hurt Tom, what if he’s gone on some kind of rampage, what if Tom’s texting from the bathroom, what if he’s locked himself in there out of fear, what if-
It’s the adrenaline that makes my heart beat fast. It’s the adrenaline that makes my body shake. It’s the adrenaline that's making me sweat. It’s the adrenaline that causes me to leave my apartment with no jacket. It’s the adrenaline that causes me to leave my apartment unlocked. It’s the adrenaline that causes me to leave the ice cream there to melt.
It’s not the adrenaline that causes the tears blurring my vision.
I drive to the beat of my heart in my ears.
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I enter his apartment as quietly as I can, using my spare key. If his date is an axe murderer, I don’t want him to know I’m here. I want to save Tom, not kill us both. I close the door, the audible click of the lock making me cringe, and walk down the hall, the soles of my shoes making no noise of the carpet. It’s quiet, no shouting or screaming, but, oh shit, what if he’s killed Tom, how the fuck could I carry on without-
I look around the kitchen door way. The light of about twenty candles gives the room an orange glow. Tom’s sitting at the table alone, head bent down so I can’t see his face and all breath leaves my body because I think I’m too late but then I see his shoulders shake, he’s crying but he’s alive and I can breathe again.
“Fuck, Tom, are you ok? Did he hurt you? Is he still here?” I ask quietly as I run over to him, because Tom’s crying, full on crying and the candles are all starting to lean after burning for hours and the food hasn’t been touched. Tom looks at me as I crouch next to his chair, and I almost start crying at how broken he looks. His hair has stuck to his forehead with sweat, so he must have been crying hard. His face is red and blotchy, tear tracks covering his cheeks. His eyes are red and swollen, tears overflowing out of the corners, but the candlelight makes them look like they’re sparkling. He looks so sad, so so sad, and I hate myself for it, almost like I could have stopped it. I wish I could have stopped it.
Next thing I know Tom throws himself at me, sobbing, and I fall backwards, onto my ass, which is already sore from falling on it earlier. I almost want to joke about the amount of times I’ve been on his kitchen floor today, just to make Tom smile, but I don’t think it will, I think it’d just make me seem like an insensitive asshole. Tom just goes with my movements, and I push myself so my back’s leaning on his cupboards, pull him with me, onto my lap, just hold him while he cries, that’s what he needs, so I do. And Tom cries and cries and I just hold him, don’t shush him, don’t tell him everything’s going to be ok. He knows I don’t make promises I don’t know I can keep.
After a while Tom loosens his arms from around me, pulls back, gets off my lap, but sits right next to me on the floor. I can feel him pressed all along the right side of my body.
“What happened?” is all I say. Tom takes a deep, jagged breath and wipes his eyes.
“Asshole turned up half an hour late, walked in and asked me where everyone else was. Seems he thought I invited him over for a party.” Fuck, that’s never good. “I didn’t even know what to say. Then he saw all the candles and the food, he asked me if he was interrupting something. I tried to explain myself, apologise for the confusion, but I didn’t even get half way before he asked me if I was a fucking faggot.” He spits the last two words out like venom. My blood boils. “What do you say to that? ‘Yeah, I’m a fucking faggot, and I thought you were a fucking faggot too’? When I didn’t say anything he stormed out, mumbling bullshit under his breath. Since then I’ve been sitting here crying like a fucking pussy.” He smacks his head against the cupboards, does it again, again. “God, I’m such an idiot.”
“Tom, no, shut the fuck up. You’re not an idiot. He’s a total asshole. Who even does that? He should have been fucking flattered that you went to so much effort for him, not fucking insulted. I wish someone cared about me enough to do all this for me.” I tell him, fiercely. I will not have him blame himself for some narrow-minded moron’s bigotry.
“Yeah?” He asks me, head leaned back against the cupboard. Stray tears fall down his cheeks and I resist the urge to wipe them away.
“Yeah. I mean, I know I’ve been a bit of a whiney ass bitch all day, but I honestly think all the things you done for him are really sweet. It’s just a shame be was a homophobic jerk who was too freaked out over a dude having a crush on him than the fact that you went to a lot of trouble to do all this.”
“Technically you went to all the trouble. All I did was spill sauce.” He smiles slightly, and I smile back. His voice is rough but he’s not crying anymore.
“Hey, you laid the table too. That’s a fine ass table. Kudos on your table laying skills.” Tom giggles a little, and it’s like then and only then do I get to relax slightly. Tom’s not dead, he’s not hurt. He’s here, next to me, solid and warm, and ok, he’s upset and pissed off, but that’s nothing compared to some of the scenarios that were running through my head earlier.
“You always know how to make me smile, Mark.” He tells me, smiling shyly at me, and my mind flashes back to the picture I found earlier, the words written on the back, the look on our faces, my face. Then I run through the entire day, the way I came at Tom’s beck and call, sure I complained, but I still went, no questions asked. The way my stomach turned when he talked about this douchebag he had a crush on, how easy it was for me to touch him, fix his hair, wear his clothes, do anything I needed to give him what he wanted. How pissed off I was after I left here for the evening to let Tom get on with his date. The complete and utter fear that made my blood run cold when I read that text message. I look at Tom right now, and I realize how he constantly is the most important, most beautiful thing in my life, even now, when he’s sitting on his kitchen floor sweaty and swollen from crying. And then I notice how he’s looking at me, like I’m made of gold, like I possess the answers to everything he wants to know, like I am the answer. I notice everything all at once, and nothing has ever made more sense in my entire life.
I feel dizzy.
Just like that, the air shifts around us, and Tom must have the same realization as I do because he stops looking so sad and just looks shocked, like he’s seeing me in a whole new light and he can see a million things he couldn’t see before.
He blinks.
I'm not sure which one of us leans in first, but it doesn’t really matter because either way it would have had the same outcome. Our lips meet roughly, like we’re scared the other one is gonna run away, my hands going straight for his neck, his knotting themselves in my shirt. The kiss turns soft quickly, tender and warm, no tongue, just comfort. It’s easy, so beautifully easy, like the way I can listen to Tom talk about aliens even though I don’t really believe in any of that bullshit, like the way I call him at 3am just to tell him something I forgot to tell him earlier, like the way we tease each other about being in love with each other.
Although now it doesn’t seem like teasing, just two people looking for an affirmation they didn’t know they wanted. Needed.
We pull back, but Tom leaves his forehead leaning against mine for a few seconds afterwards before pulling back fully, but going no further away than four inches. He looks me in the eyes and smiles.
“Hi.” He says, like we’re meeting each other for the first time. And we are, in a way. This is a different Tom, here, in front of me. This Tom is my Tom.
“Hey.” I smile back, and he giggles and turns all shy, dipping his head in my hands, but I pull it straight back up so he’s looking me in the eye again. He’s not smiling any more, but neither am I, because this is serious now. “I think I’ve been in love you and not even known.” I tell him, not caring about the gravity of that statement. Tom nods in my hands, and I drop them to his neck again. He opens his mouth to say something, but just shuts it again and nods some more. He’s looking at me and his eyes are open and honest, I can see everything I need to in them.
His eyes are sparkling in the candlelight once again, but I think mine are too.