Fic: Reality Won't Hurt Longer than it Should (2/3)

[riflethrough]

Part I

The next two days of driving are pure and utter hell for Marshall. Cash can’t seem to shut up about their romp in the back of the van. Singer groans loudly every time Cash opens his mouth, has even opted to sit up front as opposed to sleeping.

“There’s no way I’m getting back there without a hazmat suit,” he snaps, glaring at Marshall over his shoulder.

Ian is oddly silent in the driver’s seat. Marshall can’t help but notice how carefully he doesn’t mention anything that happened, what he’d seen, or chime in with a jibe at either his or Cash’s expense whenever Cash starts bragging.

“Oh come on, Singer,” Cash croons, sitting up on the middle bench seat and grinning toothily. “We didn’t leave anything behind. Marshall’s got good suction.”

Marshall tears his eyes away from Ian’s rigid form to punch Cash hard on the arm. “You motherfucker, I didn’t swallow shit.”

Cash shrinks back away from Marshall, holding his wounded limb against his body. “Dude, fuck, seriously. You know you loved it. He loved it, guys, I swear.”

“Okay,” Johnson says, sitting up in the back to smack the side of Cash’s head. “We fucking get it. Lay off so I can sleep.”

“What is with the abuse?” Cash asks, offended. “Ian, get back here and protect me. Keep the wild women off me.”

Marshall swings out again to hit him but misses when Cash nearly falls off the seat to avoid him. Johnson, however, gets him with his pillow this time and Cash cries out loudly. Singer groans and rubs his eyes but Ian never says a word.

--

It’s rainy when they get to Chicago, not quite constant, but close enough. The clouds are hanging low and moving fast, dark and angry above, rumbling with sound and lighting up every once in a while.

Marshall sits inside the front bar of the venue, watching through the wall of windows overlooking the street below. The club isn’t open yet, so it’s safe to be out in the open without his chest wrapped up. He’s starting to think about investing in a bra, but there’s only so much he can do while still in denial. Buying any sort of feminine clothing would be like accepting this. And Marshall just really wants his fucking cock back.

He lifts his legs onto the worn-out couch and presses his face between his knees, just breathing and re-breathing his own warm air for a while. He wonders if he’d pass out doing this if he did it long enough, but he doesn’t even become lightheaded before someone is sinking down beside him.

Marshall is ready to either punch Cash for interrupting him or turn and bury his face in Gabe’s neck. Either would be relatively therapeutic. But when he turns his head and opens his eyes Ian is the one beside him. He’s sitting a little too far away for Marshall’s liking. There’s rarely ever that much space between them.

“Hey,” he mumbles quietly into the fabric of his jeans.

Ian smiles a little but it looks forced. Marshall’s stomach clenches and he swallows against his dry throat. He waits for Ian to talk, not willing to put himself out there any more than he already has-which isn’t much at this point.

“Is everything-are you…” Ian trails off, like everything he’s trying to think of to say just isn’t expressing his thoughts enough. He sighs a little, propping his elbow up on the armrest, rubbing at his forehead before looking sideways at Marshall. “Cash, huh?”

Marshall immediately goes on the defense. “Yeah,” he says, turning back to looking out of the window. It’s starting to sprinkle again. He vaguely hopes no one’s started lining up for the show already.

Ian doesn’t say anything again for a while. “Gabe and Cash.” Marshall bristles. “So if… if you had a type, they’d be it?”

Marshall nearly falls off the couch in his haste to get up and glare down at Ian. “You don’t have any fucking right,” he snaps. “It’s not your business what I do.” Ian just blinks up at him a moment, looking a little shocked; which Marshall can understand, he guesses, because Ian hadn’t sounded mad or intrusive. He’d been quiet, curious maybe. But Marshall doesn’t wait, he storms off, heading for the dressing room they’d dropped their stuff in earlier.

Luckily it’s empty and Marshall throws himself down on the floor and pouts, bordering on the edge of tears for a while, swiping angrily at his eyes and sniffing, saying things out loud like, “Fucking Ian. Fucking Cash. I hate this,” and kicks his bag away from his feet.

There’s a roll of elastic bandages sticking out of the side, it juts up farther when his foot makes contact and Marshall just sits there staring for a while before he sighs, wipes his hands down his face and reaches for it.

He’s standing in the bathroom, door open and shirt halfway off when Singer walks in and says, “Shit, sorry, sorry,” and turns away. “The door wasn’t locked, I didn’t think anyone was in here.”

Marshall fights his shirt back down and says, “It’s fine, I don’t really wanna do this sooner than I have to anyway,” and tosses the binding down on the counter.

Singer looks back carefully, like Marshall might have suddenly have gotten naked or something. He looks hesitant but a little relieved. Marshall’s not sure that’s a good thing. He’s still Marshall, he doesn’t want them to look at him any differently. But he supposes that as long as he’s too embarrassed and worried about what they’d say if he still changed around them that they have the right to look away and blush a little whenever his tits come into question.

Singer leans against the doorjamb. “You all right?” he asks, forehead bunching. “You look,” he gestures with one hand up at Marshall’s face before waving it around uselessly, “upset.”

“I’m fine,” Marshall says, the lie comes easily. “Fucking fine.”

Singer hesitates before stepping in closer, his arms folded across his chest in a defensive manner. They stare at everything else in the room that isn’t each other until Singer asks, “Is it Cash?” Marshall is silent, staring at his own reflection. “You know not to listen to him, he’s so full of shit.”

Marshall shocks himself a little when he says, “I didn’t blow him.” Not that that’s any of Singer’s business. “Fucking sick,” he mumbles, trailing his finger along a line of water beside the sink.

Singer laughs a little, taken aback. “That was… honest.”

“I just don’t like him saying that. Or any of the shit he keeps saying. I wouldn’t have let him touch me if I’d known he was gonna do this.”

Singer purses his lips a little, thinking for a moment before he says, “He’s just acting like he would if you were a guy.”

Marshall looks over at him and Singer actually flushes a little. Weird.

“Yeah, I guess.” Marshall resumes critiquing his face, leaning in a little and turning his head from side to side slowly. He can feel Singer staring at him but he doesn’t say anything; neither of them do. Finally Marshall runs a hand through his hair and says, “I make an ugly girl.”

Singer’s response is quick and serious. “No, you don’t.” Marshall looks over at him and Singer looks a little shell-shocked, like he hadn’t even realized he’d said anything, before he moves in enough that he can put a hand on Marshall’s back and push him closer to the counter. “You look fuckin’ pretty, dude. It’s weird.”

Marshall doesn’t think he looks very different at all. Maybe his eyelashes curl a little more and his jaw isn’t quite as sharp, but his eyes themselves look the same, his mouth does, his hands, everything except the girl parts.

“Whatever,” Marshall says, but Singer leans in, against him and suddenly Marshall’s breath is caught in his throat. He chokes a little because Singer is half-hard and pressing against his ass as he runs a hand through Marshall’s hair, guiding his head in closer to the mirror.

“You’re not looking hard enough,” Singer says, thick and quiet.

A shudder works itself down Marshall’s spine and Singer’s other hand grips his hip in a firm clamp against the counter. “Singer-”

“I’ll stop,” he interrupts, arching up a little and rubbing himself against Marshall’s low back. “If you want, I’ll stop.”

Marshall’s head drops forward and he pants a little when Singer fists a hand in his hair. He really just wants to tell Singer to keep going, because that feeling is back in his stomach, tight and warm and he’s getting wet already from just this, but he turns, pushing Singer away and squirming around before pulling him back in. Singer settles their hips together, fully hard, rubbing against Marshall and making him moan.

“If you act like Cash, I swear-”

“No,” Singer mumbles, leaning in and pulling Marshall towards him at the same time. Their lips meet, easy and damp, quickly opening and tongues brushing out. It feels desperate, needy in a way it wasn’t with Gabe or Cash. Singer’s tongue rubs along his before he sucks Marshall’s into his mouth.

Marshall moans weakly, fingers clutching at Singer’s back and from there, it just happens too fast. His jeans are pulled down, hanging off one foot, while Singer’s are down just enough that his cock is free. Marshall stares down at it, the head leaking steadily and he can’t help it, he reaches out, runs his finger along it, through the bead of precome at the tip. Singer’s hips jerk unevenly and his moan is shaky.

“Marshall, up,” he says, running his hands down to the crooks of Marshall’s thighs and boosting him up onto counter, moving quickly in between his parted thighs.

“Okay,” Marshall mumbles, scooting forward as much as he can and still be on the ledge. “Now, Singer.”

But Singer just pulls him in, kisses him again, wet and sloppy and Marshall feels himself clench in anticipation. He fucking wants it. “I don’t have anything,” Singer finally says, sliding his hand over Marshall’s belly and down until his thumb is rubbing smooth, damp circles against Marshall’s clit.

Marshall almost jerks right off the counter.

“I don’t care, just fucking… pull out or whatever.” Marshall knows in his head that he’s supposed to say whatever the exact opposite of what he just said is, knows how stupid this could be, how bad it could turn out, but he just doesn’t care.

Singer groans weakly in the back of his throat. He takes himself in hand, pumping a little, and then guiding himself forward, rubbing the head of his dick against Marshall before pushing in and up.

Marshall folds forward because this, this is better. So much better than he’d imagined. Singer inside of him, stretched and wet around Singer’s cock. He moans shakily. It’s so wrong and odd at the same time, everything just feels like too much and he can’t help it that when Singer starts thrusting rapidly-like he can’t help it- he grunts and moans with every push.

He thinks vaguely, I can feel it. And he can, the uneven jerks of Singer’s hips, the way the head of his dick glides along all the sensitive spots inside of him that no one else has managed to reach yet. He can hear it too, the slick sounds of Singer pushing in and out; it’s almost embarrassing that it’s because of him.

It’s just too fucking perfect and this is why he’d wanted it to be with his band.

Singer howls a little when Marshall clenches muscles he’s never used before and tries to meet his hips. He’s unsteady already, planting his hands on the counter and then running one up to push Marshall’s shirt out of the way so he can lean in and suck one of his nipples into his mouth.

Marshall can’t help but cry out when Singer’s lips touch his skin. He tightens and jerks forward against Singer and thinks, shit, shit, not yet and then it’s over, warmth and pleasure deep in his stomach, clenching and twisting and, “Singer, please.”

Singer yanks himself out so hard it actually hurts. Marshall arches and whines high in that girlish way he can reach sometimes and spurts over his own fist and Marshall’s belly, cursing the entire time. “Shit, oh shit, I almost didn’t,” Singer gasps, face hot and sweaty against Marshall’s throat as he works his hand shakily over his dick, coaxing everything he can out of it for himself in a way Marshall envies and misses being able to do.

And when Singer finally leans back and looks him in the eye, flushed and sticky and sated, all Marshall really feels is, “Thanks.”

Singer laughs, hoarse and rough. “Yeah, shit, Marsh.”

They clean up in relative silence and Singer stays long enough for them both to change and makeout a little against the counter before helping Marshall wrap his chest.

Marshall stares at himself in the mirror for a while after, but he still thinks he just looks like a feminine guy.

--

"What?" Marshall snaps. He's driving and he's just caught Johnson, who's sitting in the passenger seat, staring at him for the fifth time in as many minutes. "Is there something on my face?"

There's maybe a splash of red across Johnson's nose and cheeks. He looks straight forward again. "No, it's nothing."

Marshall frowns, but doesn't look away from the road again. Johnson's keeping him company, making sure he stays awake. He tries not to have the thought that Johnson, of all people, is going to have some stupid shit to say to him the likes of one Cash Colligan. Marshall might seriously lose it if that happens.

"Is something wrong with you?" Marshall asks, and not exactly unkindly.

Johnson laughs a little. "I should be asking you that."

Marshall hopes that it's quiet in the back, behind them, because everyone really is asleep. He hopes no one is listening in, ears perked in the almost-dark.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Marshall sees him shrug out of the corner of his eye. "Only that I would lose my mind if I ever suddenly got tits and-other stuff."

Marshall snorts a laugh. "Other stuff?"

"Shut up," Johnson mutters.

"Sure." Marshall tries not laugh again.

"I mean, what's it like?" Then he's blushing again, saying, "Fuck, don't answer that."

"What the hell do you think it's like?" Marshall raises his eyebrows. "There's nothing really different, man. I've just got, like, different machinery."

"Right." Johnson slumps down in his seat, hand covering his face. He waves vaguely in the direction of Marshall's chest. "So, that's," he breaks off.

"Wait," Marshall says. He laughs. "Do you not believe it's real or something?"

"No," Johnson says quickly, "of course I believe you."

Marshall still thinks the way he worded it is strangely, still thinks there's something else going on in Johnson's head. "Stop acting weird," Marshall mutters.

"Oh, fuck you," Johnson says, reaching over to punch Marshall lightly on the arm.

Marshall makes an indignant sound, barks, "Hey, driving here!" They're both smiling though.

--

There's a party of sorts after the show one night, almost all of the bands and quite a few of the fans hanging out in the parking lot.

Singer appears at his left, draping himself all over Marshall's shoulders. Singer's pretty affectionate when he's drunk. And it doesn't take much to get him drunk. "Hey," he breathes, smiling widely.

"Hey," Marshall says. He drops an arm around Singer's waist so that they don't overbalance and fall to the floor.

"So, guess what?" Singer says. He lays his head on Marshall's shoulder. Marshall can't help but smile a little.

"What, what?" He wonders if he could he could get Singer to sit down on the curb with him.

"Ol' Jizzleface asked about you." He can feel Singer smiling again.

"Asked about what?" Marshall has still caught Johnson staring at him every now and then. He usually just makes a face until Johnson smiles, or stares back at him until he looks away, flustered. He figures Johnson will get over whatever his problem is soon enough. Or, more like, he hopes so.

"You and me," Singer says. He presses his face to Marshall's neck.

Marshall tenses. "You told him?" he asks, voice tight.

"No," Singer says, and he sounds a little offended. "No, I did not. But he saw me coming out of the bathroom that day. It wasn't hard to figure out."

Marshall curses, rubs the hand not almost in Singer's back pocket over his eyes. "What did he ask, exactly?"

"Like, did we really do it. Are you really a girl now. It was very strange." Singer stands up straight. "I think I should relocate." He points. "To the other side of the parking lot."

Singer leaves, steps only a little unsteady. Marshall shakes his head, amused. His eyes scan the parking lot, searching until he sees Johnson talking with Cash, leaning against the van. Marshall walks towards them.

"Hey, Johnson, can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Marshall," Cash drawls, "how are you doing, lovely lady that you are?"

Marshall snorts. "Shut the hell up."

Johnson nods, pushing Marshall away before he and Cash can exchange anymore less than friendly words. Marshall reaches a hand back, grabbing onto Johnson wrist and pulling him away. He pulls him all the way across the parking lot and behind the empty venue, where it's a little dark and a lot shady, and currently free of other people

"Hey." Johnson looks wary. "What's up?"

Marshall starts unbuttoning his shirt. "I have something to show you."

Now he looks just a bit freaked out. "Show me what?" he asks, nervous.

Marshall gets the shirt all the way unbuttoned, shoves his undershirt up over his chest, baring his stomach and his wrapped chest.

"Um," Johnson says. He looks like he might bolt any second. Marshall steps forward, into his space. He undoes the binding, letting the wrapping fall. Johnson's lips part and he stares down at Marshall's chest. Marshall shivers a little, even though the air is still and it's pretty warm out.

"Seriously, these are real," Marshall says. "And you didn't have to go to fucking Singer to find that out, you know."

Johnson finally reacts, turning his face and muttering, "Put those away."

Marshall grins a little. "Why," he asks, "do they freak you out or something?" He steps even closer, shirt still open, until there's only about an inch of space between them. He's feeling reckless, brave. "You wanna touch 'em? You know, just to make sure they're really there. It could be some kind of illusion."

Johnson looks pained, eyes moving back and forth between Marshall's face and his chest. "What are you doing?"

Marshall feels his face heat for the first time. "I'm not sure," he admits. "But I guess the offer's still open, from before. If you changed your mind."

That's apparently all it takes for Johnson to be spinning him around, pressing him back against the wall and kissing him. Marshall wraps his arms around Johnson's shoulders, straining up into the kiss, tangling his fingers in Johnson's hair. Johnson palms each of his breasts, thumbs rubbing circles around his nipples. Marshall gasps.

It's pretty quick, Johnson yanking his jeans down, all the way down, grabbing him under his thighs and fucking him against the wall. Unlike Singer, Johnson does have a condom, fumbling it out of his wallet. Even though, Marshall has vague thoughts of drummers and their arm muscles, he's a little afraid that Johnson's going to drop him, clutches at his shoulders and neck, legs wrapping around his waist tight enough that it's difficult for Johnson to snap his hips forward.

Marshall muffles any and all sounds into Johnson mouth, around his tongue, thinking of the party and the sounds of the people just around the corner. He bites down on Johnson's shoulder, his neck, when he thinks he's not being quiet enough. Johnson only jerks his hips harder when that happens, kissing Marshall harder or pressing his face between his neck and shoulder.

Marshall curses, wants to reach between the nonexistent space between their bodies to rub at his clit, but is too afraid of causing them to fall. He settles for squeezing hard around Johnson's cock, causing him to almost cry out. Marshall grins, and Johnson smiles back.

Then he's reaching down, saying, "Hold on," voice rough. He rubs and rubs at Marshall's clit for him, unable to thrust as hard as before, their balance precarious with Johnson only holding him up with one hand under his ass and his hips pressing Marshall's against the rough wall. Marshall clings to him, panting in Johnson's mouth, clenching his eyes shut and his hands in Johnson shirt as he comes. Johnson removes his hand, going back to holding Marshall up and fucking in and out of him, over and over until he's muffling his moan into Marshall's neck, cock jerking as he comes inside of him.

They both laugh, voices shaky and rough, as Johnson lets Marshall down. He gets Johnson to help him with the wrapping, then pulls his undershirt down, buttons up his overshirt with slightly unsteady hands. Johnson winces, tossing the condom on the ground, gingerly tucking himself back into his jeans. Marshall pulls a face at him.

"It was already a shady location back here," Johnson says.

"You didn't have to contribute to the shadiness," Marshall says. He pulls up his jeans, brushing them off from where they'd picked up little clumps of dirt.

Johnson just pulls a face right back at him.

"I feel kind of ridiculous now," Marshall admits. He really, really hopes not, but he's pretty sure he's blushing.

Johnson nods, tugging a hand through his hair which is messier than usual, thanks to Marshall pulling on it. "Yeah, so. After you." He waves to their right, where they'll have to go to get back to everyone else.

Marshall takes in a big breath, patting Johnson on the chest once before walking out. No one looks at him strangely, no one even really pays him any attention. That is, until Gabe is suddenly there, arm around Marshall's shoulder and almost knocking him over.

"Dude," Gabe says, "tell Ryland I am the best fucking dancer on this tour, I need a witness." Gabe glances at Johnson behind them, who is looking decidedly shifty-eyed, then back at Marshall. He sniffs, making a face. "Wow, did you just-"

"Yes," Marshall almost hisses, "and shut up." He ducks out from under Gabe's arm, crossing his arms over his chest.

Gabe blinks at him before grinning. "Hey, it's cool, everyone needs to unwind somehow, sometime." He winks at Marshall and Johnson exaggeratedly, then he's bounding off again.

Marshall shakes his head a little, looking off across the lot. Cash and Singer are leaning against the side of the van, heads bent together as they talk. Ian is sitting crosslegged in the back, both doors open. They're probably going to leave soon. Marshall meets his eyes as Johnson steps up to stand beside him and Ian waves at them, smiles a little.

--

It’s at the one month mark that Marshall starts to fear that his feminine state is permanent.

He thinks about it one afternoon while he and Singer go out for coffee and realizes that he’s been a member of the fairer sex for so long. He’s surprised that it hasn’t crossed his mind before now but there’s still not a damn thing he can do about it.

His mood darkens rapidly after that. He’s fed up with this, the chest binding, the hiding, the lack of contact with their fans, everything. But some how what really stings more than anything is the fact that Ian won’t even talk to him anymore.

At least not like before.

Ian won’t sit beside him in the van or hang out with him before or after shows. He always finds a reason to be somewhere else or busy when Marshall comes looking for him. Gabe suggests that Ian’s jealous of all the sex Marshall’s band has been having with him; and after Marshall punches Gabe for the suggestion, he reminds Gabe that Ian is gay.

Marshall isn’t sure what the sinking feeling in his stomach is about whenever he thinks about Ian never having even thought about wanting him like this is, but he’s too fucking scared to think about what that means.

--

Marshall rationalizes that it’s Cash’s fault for pushing him over the edge from happily buzzed to raging, fall-down drunk.

After all, it was Cash who had jumped on Marshall’s shitty mood, asking him if he was PMSing before prodding more embarrassing questions about whether or not he’d gotten his special monthly visitor at all.

Inexplicably Marshall’s eyes burn with tears and he can feel his face heat when he looks over and notices how tight the grimace on Ian’s face is; how disgusted and just… off he appears.

Marshall heads for the cooler backstage and doesn’t look back.

He plays the entire show drunk and then proceeds to mingle with fans more than he has since this whole incident happened. His chest is wrapped too tightly, he’s sweating under it and finds he keeps pawing at it all night. People stare when he shoves his hand up his shirt to itch at it and stumbles around a little from lack of balance, but mostly girls just take the opportunity to grab onto him and hold him upright.

Just when Marshall is starting to see things through blurred vision and the red head in front of him is making his stomach clench in ways he thought he’d never be capable of feeling again, Ian appears and smiles sweetly at the girl before pulling Marshall off.

“The fuck?” Marshall snaps, twisting his arm but only managing to throw himself sideways into Ian who fumbles his grip and almost knocks them both to the floor.

“You were hitting on that girl,” Ian tells him, yanking him through the darkened backstage and out through the loading door.

Marshall struggles again when the cool breeze hits him, attempting to yank free. Ian just pulls him in harder. “What’re you doing?”

“You need to lie down.”

“No,” Marshall growls indignantly.

Ian sighs a little and tugs again but Marshall finally manages to stop him cold in his tacks when he sneers, “You’re just tryin’ to get me alone in the van.”

Marshall finds his arm is free and brings it up to his chest, belatedly, rubbing at his wrist when Ian turns slowly to face him.

“What?”

“You heard me. You just wanna get me alone. Well I’m, drunk, Ian.” Marshall thinks he’d probably even stick his tongue out if he could remember how; his head is starting to throb.

Ian stares at him. For a long time he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, he just watches Marshall, face flushing slightly and his shoulders sagging.

“What?” Marshall growls angrily, folding his arms against his chest.

“I’m gay, Marshall,” Ian says carefully after a while.

“And? I’m still a guy and everyone else’s fucked me.” If Marshall weren’t so wasted he be aware of just how vile he sounds, how downright mean, stepping in closer to Ian’s personal space and then further. Ian takes a step back and Marshall takes another.

Ian puts a hand to Marshall’s chest, stopping his forward movement. “You’re being an ass.” His voice wavers over the words, coming out quiet and unsteady; like maybe there’s tears behind them somewhere. Marshall can’t tell and he doesn’t care.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t want me.” Marshall has no idea why he says it, he just does. His eyes snap closed a moment later when he reaches out and grabs Ian’s dick hard enough to make him gasp and pull back, shoving Marshall hard. Marshall stumbles back and falls to the ground, scraping the palms of both hands.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch me again,” Ian growls, angry and breathy all at the same time, disbelief and horror tinting his voice before he turns and heads back into the venue, letting the door slam behind him.

Marshall doesn’t move for a long time. He sits on the pavement, staring off into the mostly empty parking lot and then down at his hands, little pieces of gravel stuck under the skin staring back at him.

--

If he'd thought things with Ian were bad before, then the next day is hell. Ian seems to be pretty much pretending Marshall doesn't exist. Marshall tries not to let it show just how stupid he feels, just how fucking ashamed he is even though no one but Ian knows how Marshall crossed the line last night. And, of course, to top it all off he feels like absolute shit, head throbbing and eyes too sensitive.

Playing that night is a bitch and a half, and Marshall's probably going to haul off and punch the next person that says anything to him, friendly or not. This might have something to do with how disgusting he feels, might also have something to do with the way Cash keeps snickering at him; making mock-sad faces at Marshall when he grimaces at a particularly bright spotlight.

Marshall practically stalks off the stage once they're done, pushing past everyone until he can get to the outside. He thinks he's just going to sulk in the van for awhile, alone.

If Marshall ever wanted to re-do something, it isn't half as much as he wishes could re-do yesterday. He wishes he hadn't gotten drunk, wishes he hadn't talked to Ian, wishes. And all the stupid wishing in the world isn't going to take back what happened. He knows he needs to do something about it.

Which is how he finds himself braving the flashing lights and dancing masses of the band that's still playing, looking for Ian. He feels hot, a little nauseous, and can't tell if it's the hangover or nervousness. Probably both.

He spots Ian over by a group of girls and Cash. The girls look like they might be fans, so he stays where he stands, arms crossed and shoulders hunched to try to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He's so not in the mood to smile for any pictures, try to think of a way to deflect requests for hugs.

Finally, Ian breaks away from the group, smiling, heading in Marshall's direction. Marshall swallows hard, heart thumping in his chest. He can't remember the last time Ian aimed a smile that bright, that real, at Marshall. He has to fix that.

"Hey," Marshall says, voice fainter than normal.

Ian smile fades and he glances away from Marshall. He steps to the side, tries to leave. Marshall follows, stepping in front of him. Ian's lips thin.

"Hey," Marshall says again, "I really need to talk to you."

"I don't really want to hear from you right now," Ian says. He does meet Marshall's eyes for this. Marshall bites his lip.

"Please." His voice is low, a little bit pleading. "Just listen."

Ian shakes his head and Marshall feels his stomach drop. "Why? So you can apologize? Because that won't really mean anything, not now."

"I was really drunk, okay-"

"That's not an excuse for being an asshole, Marshall," Ian says coldly. "You are what you are, the alcohol just didn't let you hide it as easily."

Marshall feels the first bit of anger curl in him. "You don't know what it's like, having this happen to you. You have no idea what I'm going through."

Ian snorts. "And I've tried to ask you about it before, but you snapped and shut me down. You could share this, Marshall, but it looks like you actually want to deal alone."

Marshall looks away from Ian at that, tries to focus anywhere else. He says, "We probably shouldn't be doing this here."

Ian looks like he might stalk away, like he doesn't give a fuck where they should do this because he's not doing it at all. That's what Marshall is really expecting from him and it's kind of a shock when Ian says, "Fine. Let's go to the van."

They make it outside without getting stopped. Marshall sits sideways on a bench, so that he can easily see Ian on the bench behind him. He fidgets with the sleeve of his hoodie, says, "I am sorry."

Ian is not looking at him, eyes fixed to his fingers tracing patterns on the back of Marshall's bench. He says nothing.

Marshall takes a big breath, lets it out slowly. "Fuck." He twists his sleeves around his fingers. "I don't really know what I'm doing anymore," he admits.

Ian glances at him. His mouth is still tight, face unhappy, but there's something in his eyes. Something that could bode well for Marshall.

"Maybe you should just take it easy for awhile," he suggests. "Not hook up with everyone that walks past."

Marshall snorts an unhappy laugh. He says, half jokingly, "Hey, I was just trying to experiment. Have fun. Try to make something good come out of this."

Ian's mouth twitches and Marshall swears he feels a little better already. "And how'd it work out for you?"

Marshall shrugs. "I don't know. I might've gotten a little more 'in the know' when it comes to pleasing girls." He tries to grin.

The joke falls flat when Ian looks away, unsmiling. "What happened yesterday, I promise, shit like that will never happen again. It was just. A weird time, I guess."

Ian nods, but he doesn't look particularly convinced. He says, "I meant what I said earlier. I'll listen if you want to talk."

Marshall swallows, heart back to thumping against his ribcage. His palms are sweaty. He's reminded of a crush he had on a girl in tenth grade, the worst kind, the one where he could barely bring himself to speak in her presence. His voice is barely above a whisper when he says, "Thanks."

Fucked, he thinks. I'm so fucked.

--

There’s only so much denial Marshall can put himself through at a time. He’s accepted the girl thing with about as much grace as he thinks anyone ever could and he’s just ready to be a guy again, wants it, but nothing changes. He wakes up day after day a girl and his hopes of ever reclaiming his dick are shrinking with every passing sunrise.

Then there’s Ian.

Knowing, finally realizing, that the way Ian looks at him and talks to him makes his stomach burn low with arousal scares the hell out of him.

He’s not sure what it means, he’s afraid to consider it. Somehow sleeping with the rest of his guys wasn’t like this; it didn’t mean anything beyond messing around, having fun. But this… this is desire. This is something very not straight.

And Marshall’s really not sure what to do.

At first he fumbles his words, hesitates around Ian, earning himself drawn up eyebrows and odd looks. Ian is still ignoring him a little, withdrawn in a way that Marshall finds more painful that anything because Ian’s his best friend. And now also his crush. It’s a double rejection that Ian can still barely stand his presence.

It stings in a way Marshall isn’t used to and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

--

They play a club where the bartenders look the other way when someone with a tour pass approaches, somewhere in Kentucky. Cash comes back to their merch table holding a beer, smile triumphant on his face and Marshall follows Singer towards the side bar.

They’re all pretty tanked, except for Johnson who has a headache and has volunteered to be the designated for drive over to the hotel, and Marshall finds himself standing somewhere near the back of the crowd, watching Cobra’s set. He’s got a drink in one hand and the other rests in his hoodie pocket; swaying a little and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

A warm body presses to his back and Marshall almost falls right over. He tries to jerk around, but hands slide across his stomach and into his pockets, holding him in place. Then Ian’s curly hair comes into sight and Marshall relaxes a little.

“What are you doing?” he shouts over the music.

Ian doesn’t respond, just presses his sweat-damp face into the side of Marshall’s neck and pulls him back into motion.

“Ian,” Marshall tries again.

“What?” Ian finally shouts.

Marshall squirms away. There’s too many people, they shouldn’t touch like this, even if it doesn’t mean anything. Marshall’s heart gives a painful leap in his chest and he distracts himself with taking a drink.

“Dance with me,” Ian grins; yeah, he’s wasted.

“Not here, Ian.”

“Where then?” Ian presses, his grin growing. He’s too affectionate when he’s drunk, much more prone to random bouts of sneak-attack hugging and, oddly enough, dancing.

When Marshall hesitates too long, Ian takes his drink from him, setting it down on the floor and pulling Marshall in against him. He’s still smiling, laughing a little when Marshall grabs onto him for support that Ian doesn’t exactly provide. They stumble around a little and Marshall finally rights them.

“You’re a shit dancer.”

“Your mom’s a shit dancer,” Ian tells him, face completely serious.

And it’s just so easy, they’re so close and languid, no one’s watching and Ian is smiling at him like everything’s fine. Marshall leans in and kisses him.

Ian kisses back, mouth opening and pulling Marshall in by a handful of hair, teeth clanking against his and tongues brushing. Marshall leans into it, whimper lost to the pulse of the bass, hands digging into Ian’s shirt. Marshall’s hips tilt in a little, trying to rub against Ian in an instinctual way that will do him no good, even if Ian wasn’t pulling away, gasping and swiping his hand over his mouth.

Marshall reels a moment, almost losing his balance. The house lights are flashing and Marshall suddenly feels like he’s going to throw up. When he looks at Ian, Ian looks horrified, hand covering his mouth like Marshall might spring at him and try to resume making out. Because that’s what they were doing. They were definitely making out.

He has no idea what to say but he tries, “Ian-”

“I said no,” Ian tells him. Marshall doesn’t remember hearing that but maybe he had at some point. Everything feels blurry as it is, it’s possible he hadn’t heard.

He’s not sure what he means to say but it certainly isn’t, “You don’t want me no matter what I am.”

There’s a lull in between songs and Marshall’s vaguely shocked no one has noticed them yet, just standing there staring at one another.

Ian looks upset when he asks, “What?”

“You didn’t when I had a dick, you don’t when I have a fucking vagina, so don’t tell me you’re gay again next time I touch you.” Marshall’s aware that nothing he’s saying makes any sense; it just feels like a bunch of jumbled thoughts all trying to come out his mouth at once. Ian seems to understand though, because he still looks upset, but now he also looks angry and deflated, maybe even sad.

All he says though is, “You never looked when I did,” before he turns and makes a hasty exit through the people around them.

--

A couple days pass and Ian resumes pretending Marshall doesn't exist, and Marshall guesses he's kind of doing the same now too. And either it's mostly unnoticeable, or the guys don't care enough to ask what's going on. Whatever it is, Marshall is grateful for it. It's probably one of the only things that keeps him from not doing something he'd severely regret, that and the times he goes to just chill with Gabe on the Cobra bus.

Sometimes, when it's quiet in the van, or he's the one driving, he thinks about him and Ian kissing that night. How Ian had definitely kissed him back, if only for a little bit. What Ian had said after. These thoughts, unsurprisingly, don't make him feel any better, but he can't keep his mind from wandering.

They get two days off and the guys are psyched to stay at a hotel, to be able to go out and then sleep in. Well, the guys minus Marshall and Ian, though Marshall is pretty excited for the sleeping in part. And even though he and Ian aren't really communicating at the moment, they both opt for the single room, so that they aren't woken up at ass o'clock in the morning by their drunk band mates stumbling into the room.

It's awkward to say the least, sharing a room with someone you are actively not talking to, let alone sharing a bed. They both take showers, and then they both lay on the bed, watching TV. Well, Marshall's watching, but he's not really seeing. He’s thinking again, which, really, he should know is a bad idea by now.

"What'd you mean?" Marshall blurts. Ian startles, looks at him questioningly. Marshall can feel himself blush. "What'd you mean when you said I was never looking when you were?"

Ian frowns and his own cheeks take on a pink tint. He says, "I meant exactly what I said."

Marshall bites his lip, licks over it nervously. "But what does that mean?"

Ian turns back to the TV, eyes fixed there. His hands fidget with the remote. "Why are you asking?"

Marshall fights back the urge to make a frustrated sound, throw his hands up. "Because I want to know," he says softly.

Ian huffs a little, then says, "You said I never wanted you when you had a dick. And I said, I meant, that I did. You were just never looking back then."

Marshall is probably beet red right now, heart beating erratically. He tries to breathe carefully, says, "Oh."

Ian glances up at him, then away quickly. "Oh? That's it?"

"Well, is there something else I should be saying?"

Ian rubs his fingers through his hair, brow furrowing. "Maybe you can tell me if there's a reason behind why you groped me, then kissed me?"

"Oh," Marshall says again, faintly. "I, um. I guess because I wanted you. But, also, because I was drunk. It's mostly the first part though."

Ian nods a couple times, awkwardly. He says, "So, that's-past tense?"

Marshall rubs the palms of his hands over his sweatpants. "I guess I should be saying that I want you instead then."

"Oh," Ian says.

They both stare at the TV, quiet, and it's so fucking awkward that Marshall could shout.

Marshall clears his throat. "Anything you have to say besides 'oh'? Maybe?"

"I guess that, um." Ian pauses, sliding down further against the headboard. "It would be present tense for me too."

Marshall blinks. "What about-I mean, I'm a girl now, though."

Ian looks at Marshall then, says, "No, you're Marshall."

Marshall rolls his eyes, not meeting Ian's stare. "You know what I mean."

Ian sighs. "I guess, yeah."

Marshall has no idea what's been on the TV for about the past hour and a half. He's surprised when he suddenly hears screams, loud explosions. Ian turns the volume down a little.

"What if I don't turn back into a guy?" Marshall asks. It's the first time he's ever, ever, admitted the possibility aloud. He's a little terrified by it, and he maybe stupidly wants to hug a pillow. Or, better yet, and ever more stupidly, hug Ian.

"You will," Ian says right away. He sounds sure, almost fierce.

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you," Ian counters. "Look, I've never heard of this happening to someone, and I don’t' understand it, but why wouldn't you change back? That would make even less sense."

Marshall squints his eyes a little, frowning. "If you look at it that way, sure."

Ian looks triumphant. "But," Marshall continues, "all of these declarations of like and want mean pretty much nothing if you can't be with me. Because of my girl parts."

Ian looks away again. "But I can try."

"Try what?"

"To be with you."

Marshall's mouth tightens. "You shouldn't have to try, Ian, and I don't want to fucking force you into something with me."

"It's just-" Ian breaks off, making a frustrated sound. "But I want to try. What does that say to you?"

Marshall picks at the material of the sweatpants covering his knee. He says nothing.

"So let me show you." Ian sounds determined.

"Show me what?" Marshall asks warily.

"How much I want you, whether you have girl parts or not."

Marshall gives Ian a wide-eyed look that radiates alarm, but Ian just leans in and carefully presses his mouth to Marshall’s. Marshall doesn’t move right away, doesn’t kiss back. Ian sucks at his bottom lip a little, laving his tongue over it before pressing a gentle trail of kisses around his jaw to his ear where he whispers, “This really won’t work if you’re not into it.”

Marshall gives him another wondering look, a little confused, before he reaches up and pulls Ian down again. They kiss harder this time, faster and wetter, their lips sliding together and their tongues brushing. Ian groans a little and Marshall rolls his hips up from the sheets, searching for friction. Ian slides his hand down Marshall’s side, pushing his shirt up, but not enough to expose his breasts. He strokes at the skin of Marshall’s belly, trailing his fingers over the sharp cut of his hip; never once letting up on the force of the kiss.

Marshall feels a little dizzy, just a bit, and he can't tell whether it's from Ian kissing him or Ian's admissions or Ian doing this at all. He carefully lays himself down, never breaking the kiss with Ian even as his head hits the pillow. Ian follows him, moving closing so that their legs touch and Marshall ends up throwing one over Ian's hip.

Marshall sinks his fingers into Ian's hair, tugging on it and pushing up into the kiss even harder. Ian's hand slides from his waist and hip to his thigh, sliding down to hook behind his knee and pull them even closer.

Ian pulls back, licking his lips and looking down at the flush spreading over Marshall’s face. He smoothes back his hair and places a kiss on both of his cheeks before kissing his lips again, carefully, easy and slow. Marshall groans a little and spreads his legs.

Ian shifts until he’s between them, his cock twitching between his legs. I can do this, he thinks, I can so do this.

It feels weird, though, when Marshall shifts up, attempting to grind against him, the lack of another cock to push back against. Ian rubs back anyway, seeking friction, one arm supporting him on the bed while the other runs down Marshall’s torso and fingers the skin just under his waistline.

Marshall leans up enough to kiss Ian's neck, suck a bruise into the sensitive skin there. Ian breathes out harshly, breath puffing against Marshall's hair. Marshall moves so that he can push his thigh between Ian's, push up against him at a better angle. Ian presses his face between Marshall's neck and shoulder, against the pillow, and tenses a little. Marshall pauses, but then Ian is pressing back against his thigh, teeth nipping at Marshall's neck.

"You good?" Marshall breathes. He slides one hand up Ian's spine, rucking up his shirt and pressing his palm to Ian's skin.

Ian hesitates and he knows Marshall can tell. He pushes himself up further to look down between their bodies, where they’re pressed together. It feels good, Marshall’s hands on him and the kissing, but Ian’s not getting hard.

He closes his eyes and kisses Marshall slowly, trying to imagine him when he had stubble, when his body wasn’t quite so soft. But his jaw slides against hairless skin and his hands sink into delicate hips and, “No.” Ian doesn’t mean to say it out loud. Marshall looks up at him, a little panicked. “Not yet,” he amends.

Ian clears his throat and shifts so he’s on his side, no longer on top of Marshall, their legs still twisted together. He pulls Marshall up onto his side facing him and asks, “Are you… wet or whatever?” He honestly can’t help the blush, he would if he could; but he can feel his face heat nonetheless.

Marshall nods a little, looking just about as embarrassed, and Ian reaches for his hand, bringing it down between his legs. “If you… maybe if you touched me I could.”

Marshall lets Ian guide his hand, lets him place it at the waistband of his sweatpants. Marshall pushes forward far enough to kiss Ian on the lips, kiss him until he's mostly relaxed again. Marshall touches the waistband of his sweats, sucking Ian's lower lip into his mouth. Then he slides his hand inside, wraps his fingers around Ian's still soft dick. He squeezes, strokes dryly a couple times.

Ian breaks the kiss, forehead pressing to Marshall's. His eyes are closed, breath coming carefully and Marshall can't tell if it's good for him or not. Can't tell what he's thinking. He circles his fingers around head of Ian's cock, rubbing his thumb just under the crown and it twitches in his hand, Ian making a soft sound.

Ian's hand slips from his waist, rubbing over the smooth skin of his hip again. He kisses Marshall's chin, then his jaw, as he dips his fingers under the waistband of Marshall's pants. He slides his hand from Marshall's hip to his ass, palming it for a moment. Marshall's breath catches in his throat as Ian's hand moves from his ass to between his legs, sliding lower and lower.

Marshall’s hand stills entirely for a moment when Ian rubs his finger against Marshall’s hole, pushing against it until Marshall’s hips jerk forward. Ian grits his teeth, scooting closer, enough to reach, fingers sliding through the wetness between Marshall’s thighs.

Ian shudders a little, has to tell himself that it’s okay, that it’s Marshall, to just fucking do it before he’s able to bring his hand around front and push two fingers inside of him. Marshall cries out a little, voice high and wavering; the sound is too feminine to make Ian do anything other than cringe.

He pushes up harder, bringing his thumb up to rub, unsure of exactly where to touch, but he’s heard enough, knows the basics; just because he’s never done it before doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how. Marshall’s muscles contract around him internally and Ian tries to imagine it around his dick, what it would feel like, how it’d be good to push himself inside and feel it.

But the only thing he can think of is how much better it’d be if it were Marshall’s ass.

Ian suddenly pulls his fingers from Marshall and takes his hand from his still soft cock. “Wait, just…” he trails off, eyes closed and breathing uneven. This isn’t working at all.

Marshall looks at Ian, at how he unhappy he appears, face drawn tight and turns his head to groan into his pillow. He pulls away from Ian almost completely, their legs and side still brushing when either of them takes a big enough breath.

"Fuck, Ian," Marshall mutters. "I said I didn't want you to, to-"

"I know," Ian cuts him off, voice tight. "And I said that I wanted to try, which I did." Ian is wincing when Marshall glances up at him through the fringe of his hair. "I'm sorry."

"Whatever," Marshall says, and not because he's angry, or disappointed-well, maybe he is little bit of the last-but he says it mostly because Ian shouldn't be apologizing, not for something like this. He says, "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

Ian turns his head on the pillow, meeting Marshall gaze, his expression a little disbelieving. "I can't, I mean, I couldn't-" he stops, waving a hand at Marshall.

Marshall smiles, tries to joke. "Sort of my fault for turning into a girl in the first place, don't you think?"

“Marshall, I want you.” He tries to sound reassuring, unsure if he manages; he licks his lips nervously. “I just can’t really… get into it,” he sighs. Marshall is the image of sexual frustration and Ian’s sure that has some force behind him mumbling, “I can still do you though.”

“What?” Marshall asks, genuinely confused.

Ian blushes just a little bit more, if that’s possible, hand twisting in the sheet between them. “I can get you off, I mean. If you wanted.”

Marshall is still wet. He still wants to get off, obviously, but he doesn't want Ian thinking he has to brave anything like this for him. "You don't have to, Ian," he says quietly. "But if you're sure you can-" he stops, pressing his lips together.

Ian scoots closer, kissing Marshall once, then twice. "I am," he whispers, sliding his hands back around Marshall's waist and hips.

It’s weird, so fucking weird, is what Ian’s mind keeps telling him. Everything about it except for how it’s Marshall and he’s wanted Marshall since they met. He didn’t think anything like this would, could ever happen and he doesn’t want to let the chance go.

He presses their lips together again, easing his hand down between Marshall’s legs, rubbing his fingers carefully over Marshall’s stomach and down to his clit. He runs the tip of his middle finger over it and Marshall arches up. He does it again and again, a little harder each time until Marshall is crying out continuously into his mouth and clutching at his sleeves.

Ian slides a finger in and then out, starting a slow rhythm before asking, “Okay?”

"God, yeah," Marshall says breathlessly. He throws his leg over Ian's hip again, pressing up and trying to pull Ian closer. He thinks Ian might laugh a little, quietly, but Marshall ignores it. He presses his face between Ian's and the pillow, rolling his hips up into Ian's touch.

Ian's finger inside of him is tentative, but still good. Marshall can't really help it when he whispers, "Please, more."

Ian turns his head a little, stubbly chin and jaw scratching over Marshall's neck. Marshall allows himself to be inappropriately jealous of it for a moment before he's arching hard, muffling his moan into Ian's skin when he slips in a second finger, thumb pushing hard against his clit.

“Still good?” Ian asks and Marshall nods into his neck, teeth grazing against his skin and making Ian shiver a little.

Ian works his hand faster, trying to block out the sounds of his fingers sliding against and inside of Marshall, focusing on his breathy whimpers and the way his hips feel moving against Ian’s.

Ian kisses him again, nudging his head up with his own and slanting his mouth over Marshall’s. He can’t help it when he whispers throatily, “I wanna fuck you so bad.” It sounds ridiculous and lame because Ian’s got his fingers buried inside of Marshall, has had his hands on his dick, and he isn’t the least bit hard. But he wants it. He wants Marshall to be a guy again so badly it fucking hurts his stomach for a moment. He kisses him again. “When you turn back,” he continues, thumbing Marshall’s clit, listening to the change in his breathing, how fast and shallow it gets, “I’m gonna suck your cock.” Marshall moans loudly and Ian works his hand harder. “If you still want it, want me.” Marshall nods mindlessly. “I want you to fuck me too.”

Marshall grips Ian's arm hard enough that it probably hurts, curls in on himself a little from the feel of Ian touching him, bringing him over. He comes, sinking his teeth into Ian's shoulder to keep in any embarrassing sounds.

Ian's hands leave him, wiping off on the sheets. Marshall keeps his face pressed to Ian's skin, thinks vaguely, gross. Marshall tries to regain a regular breathing pattern, shivering a little every now and then. Ian strokes his back through all of it, hands making the wide path from the nape of his neck to his lower back, where he rubs small circles.

Marshall slides his hand from Ian's arm to his face, cupping it. Though he feels maybe a bit ridiculous, he says, "Thank you." He punctuates this with a kiss.

Ian stills. “That wasn’t a favor, Marshall.” He leans back. “I did it because I fucking want you.” He pulls back and sits up, intent on heading into the bathroom, maybe taking another shower or something, but Marshall stops him, pressing himself against Ian’s back and god the feel of his fucking tits is almost too much. “Marshall-” he says, squirming around a little, but Marshall just hangs on.

Then Marshall pulls Ian back down to the bed and he looks surprised to be there, like he didn't think Marshall was capable of it or like he didn't think Marshall would do something like this. Marshall pushes himself up onto his elbow, one forearm across Ian's chest.

"I get that it wasn't a favor, asshole," Marshall says. "But that doesn't mean I'm not. That I'm not happy that you did it. Grateful, maybe." He pokes Ian in the chest. "And I want you too."

Ian looks unsure, like he's still taken off-guard from when Marshall pulled him down. Finally though, he says, "Good to know."

Marshall snorts. He rolls off of Ian, onto his back. "Glad I could be of service."

Ian hesitates a moment before turning back, tucking his leg under him and looking down at Marshall’s prone form. He reaches out slowly, trailing the tip of his finger over Marshall’s belly button, mumbles, “This is so weird.”

Marshall grunts an affirmative, breathing evening out and just watching Ian’s fingers rub against his skin.

“Uhh,” Ian stops and clears his throat. “Can I-would it be weird, I mean...” he trails off and waves his hand uselessly around. “Can I see?” he finishes with a nod down towards Marshall’s chest.

Marshall blinks at him, surprised. "Sure, I mean. Okay," he says. He wonders why Ian wants to see, wonders what's going through his head. He pulls up his shirt quickly all the same.

He feels strange, funny with his shirt up around his armpits while he lays there and Ian just stares. Marshall bites his lip and decides to stare at the ceiling. He swears he can feel Ian's eyes on him, as if it were something physical, tangible. He tries not to shiver.

“Can I-” Ian cuts himself off, hand reaching out. Marshall doesn’t look at him but he nods, jerky and nervous.

Ian brings his hand back, wipes it on his pant leg, before he carefully curls his fingers around the curve of Marshall’s breast. It feels weird, not what Ian remembers from fumbling experiences in his early teens, but not hot or arousing or anything; he’s not getting hard or turned on. But, “Okay, sorry,” he mumbles, pulling his hand back and blushing, wiping it on his pant leg again before looking down and laughing a little. He switches to rubbing at the back of his neck.

Marshall shoves his shirt back down, face too hot as he blushes. Strange to have someone touch his tits when he's not even hooking up with the other person. Kind of like going to the doctor's and having them weigh his balls or some such shit. And, of course, with the thought comes a wave of want, want for his old body. What the hell are we doing, Marshall thinks. He huffs a little, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Was it what you expected?" he asks. He's only half-joking.

Ian knows this is a fucked up situation at best and he’s probably only making it worse. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” Ian tells him, figuring honesty is what he owes Marshall at the least. “I mean, I don’t like it.” He licks his lips. “I like you, but not-not that.” Ian laughs again, sounding tired and void of mirth. “Sorry, that wasn’t exactly gentlemanly. I just-” he stops, looking down at the way Marshall isn’t looking at him, the faint blush on his cheeks. He’s making himself sound ridiculous, so he leans over and presses his lips to Marshall’s until he responds, winding his arms around Ian’s shoulders and kissing back.

“I’d try for you,” Ian tells him, as if he hadn’t made it blatantly obvious just minutes before. “I guess I need you to know that.”

Marshall presses their foreheads together, smiling a little. "Okay," he says, voice low. "I know."

He kisses Ian again, sighing into it, threading his fingers through Ian's hair. Ian kisses him back, hands rubbing circles into the small of Marshall's back. When Marshall breaks the kiss, leaning back, he's sure he looks determined.

"I know," he says, "but we can't do this. I'm not going to have us be together when you can't even touch me comfortably." Ian opens his mouth, looking so ready to protest. Marshall stops him with a hand in the air, says, "It wouldn't be right. I'm not actually that selfish, Ian."

Ian pulls back, huffs out a breath when his head hits the pillow on his side of the bed. He allows himself to be angry and childish for a moment. “This isn’t fucking fair,” he says, not particularly directing it at Marshall. “You can’t stay like this forever. You’ve gotta turn back. Right?”

Marshall doesn’t say anything but he looks a little worried. Ian digs his teeth into his lower lip and chews at it until Marshall rolls onto his side and presses a kiss to his shoulder. “Not fair,” he says again. “I’m the one who’s always-” He stops and practically whispers, “Everyone else gets to have you but me.”

Marshall decides to stay quiet. He decides not to promise Ian things he can't say with surety, only wishes he could. Things like soon, or even someday.

Ian opens his arms when Marshall leans in to him; neither of them sleeps for a long time.

Part III