He meets Esca September of his sophomore year. Coach said that every one on the squad was required to take at least one dance class. More than half the guys had made a bee line for belly dancing, just for the girls. A few chose tap, and while Marcus considered modern dance, a quick survey of youtube yielded videos that were too weird for him to imagine enjoying himself, so he'd picked the only other dance class offered that semester: Ballet 101.
"Pretty faggy, Farkus," said a teammate after practice.
"That's not what your dad said, last night," Marcus said evenly, gathering three days worth of sweat crusted laundry from the bottom of his locker.
"Wait, what?"
*
It's a 7:30 a.m. class, which is probably why none of the other guys picked it. Which is part of why Marcus picked it, he doesn't mind making a fool of himself, but he'd rather not do it in front of his teammates. The instructor is at least three times his age, less than half his weight, and absolutely terrifying. The class is an eclectic mix, probably a third are girls who obviously have a background in the stuff and are looking for an easy out from the PE requirement. Most of the others are obviously as lost as he is.
The teacher eyes him all through the first two classes, like she's waiting for him to make trouble, but he keeps his mouth shut, pays attention, and tries his best to follow his instructions, even if none of his body parts want to turn in the direction she keeps barking at him about. She does, near the end of the second class, grudgingly praise his core strength, and when he mentions that he's done a little pilates for one of the other sports he did in high school, she seems to warm to him.
On the morning of the third class, he's still aching in places and ways he's not used to, but it's a good ache. He likes the challenge; he even likes the fact that, for once, he's not automatically one of the best in the room at something physical. He's going through some stretches, listening with half an ear to some of the girls talk about how if the teacher is more than ten minutes late, you get to leave. That's bullshit, and besides, it's only five minutes after when the class was supposed to start. The door opens and he doesn't bother looking up because he's trying to get his forehead a little closer to his knees for another thirty seconds. It's only when the girls fall silent that he lifts his head.
Someone's at the front of the class, bent in half at the waist, pushing down a pair of sweatpants to reveal grey tights over lean muscle. He steps out of the sweats and some slip off shoes, kicks them toward his duffel bag, then turns to face the class. He's still a pea coat on, as well as some black glasses and as he unbuttons himself quickly, he says, "Madam Keeffe is in the hospital. She's all right, she's just getting her gall bladder removed, if you want to send her flowers, I can get you the information after class, now can someone tell me what you learned last time?"
Marcus stares. He can't help it. The guy looks like he's *maybe* eighteen, sounds like he's straight out of some Dickens movie, and even though he's just getting undressed, he's just about the most graceful thing Marcus has ever seen. He swallows hard and goes back to stretching.
"Anyone?"
One of the girls fills him in, and then he says, "My name is Esca, and I'll be filling in for Madame Keeffe for the next few weeks." He's got this half serious, half bored look on his face as he scans the group, gliding right past Marcus, then turning his head back for a moment. Marcus knows he looks out of place, and he squares his shoulders. After a moment's eye contact that intimidates Marcus way more than it should - considering Esca doesn't seem to be pulling any alpha dog bullshit, and Marcus knows from alpha dog bullshit - Esca keeps scanning the class. After a nod, he points to the barre. "Well come on."
The only time Esca talks to him that first day is when he pauses in front of Marcus during plie's and tells him to tuck his rear end in. They don't even have their first conversation for another two classes. Marcus has no idea they'll be friends for another three classes after that.
The worst thing about being involved in a particular fandom right from the beginning is having to wait for fic. I will be refreshing this page continuously and very hopefully for however long it takes for you to post more, because DAMN this is seriously awesome.
I particularly like the description of Esca, his casualness and aloofness, the mention of his accent, the fact that he is bent in half in that first image of him. *grin* What a thing to turn around and see.
It's four weeks later that Marcus finally speaks to Esca outside of class. It's late Friday night, and the party is at the house of a friend of a friend, a ten minute drive from campus. He wasn't keen on heading out, but someone who owes him money will be there, supposedly, and the third time his suitemate tells him, 'You're going', Marcus is already 5 beers in and losing at the Xbox tournament he half-assedly started a few hours ago, so fuck it, right?
Marcus wasn't looking to get hammered tonight any more than he was looking to get laid tonight, and none of that - none at all - had a thing to do with the fact that yesterday, after class, Esca's girlfriend came to pick him up. Nope. Nor does it have a thing to do with the fact that Marcus was comfortable with the fact of his bisexuality from the age of fourteen. Which he was. Only, he was way more comfortable with the fact that he was a kick ass football and baseball player from the age of eleven and those two things, three things really, do not actually work together. And so, Marcus dates girls. When the situation demands it, Marcus fucks girls. Marcus *likes* girls. He does. Almost as much as he likes the idea of going pro.
And he doesn't do anything so stupid as develop a crush on his incredibly flexible ballet teacher, who he hasn't said two words to outside of class. Nope.
Marcus stares at the TV in front of him and frowns. What he needs is to get laid. That's it. As his suitemate (and teammate) grabs his keys, Marcus calls, "Hold up," because he's not getting laid if he hangs around here, now is he? No, no he's not. And he's not drunk either, just on that blissful edge of a buzz where one good red plastic cup of shitty punch will be just enough to send him over the edge. And well past the stupidity of thinking about he-who-shall-remain-nameless, and his stupid flexibility, and his stupid, gorgeous, totally straight ass.
Fuck.
*
The party is *loud*, and the house is all but gutted. Someone, apparently, was having a moving out celebration, and that someone was well past getting their deposit back, if the holes in the sheetrock along the stairs are any indication. He doesn't know most of the people here - but some of them know him, including two girls who keep following him around and parking themselves wherever he sits. He's trying to track down the asshole who owes him two hundred - he's seen the guy twice from across the room - but he's already two more cups into the night, and he's slow. Slower than he wants to be. The pounding music drops tempo sharply into some trippy, dubstep number he half recognizes, and the heat and the smoke gets to him all of a sudden.
He climbs the stairs to the second floor in search of a bathroom, and he's about to get in line when he recognizes spring green scarf slung over a guy's shoulder. Sandy hair. And posture like, like... "Esca!" he calls, grinning. "What are you doing here?" Esca is standing half in the last doorway on the left, and he doesn't look up when Marcus calls. Marcus tries again, and shoulders past the knots of students, till he's standing right beside the guy. He grins. "It's me, Marcus, from class."
Esca barely turns his head, gives Marcus half a nod, but he's got this look of nausea on his face that worries Marcus.
"You okay, man? You gonna be sick? Bathroom's--" Marcus finally looks where Esca is looking. It's an empty bedroom, empty except for a bare mattress on the floor, and a topless girl grinding with some guy with his pants around his knees, half on top of a pile of coats that's sliding off the mattress. "Who's that?" Marcus asks.
"That's my girlfriend," Esca says, his even voice at odds with disgust he's got on his face.
"You're, uh, into that?" Marcus asks.
That seems to shake Esca out of it. "No," he spits out. "I am not." He fishes a set of keys out of his pocket and hurls them into the room - they hit the wall above the bed, loudly enough to startle the couple.
She looks up, bleary eyed, first at Esca, then down at the keys. "It's not," she says, but before she can finish her sentence, Esca's striding away, and Marcus can't think of anything better to do than follow him, down the hall, down the stairs, and into the chilly front yard.
The guy who drove him here gave him a heads up a while ago, he'd be going home with a girl from the rowing team and it was up to Marcus to take care of the car. "Be careful if you drive home drunk, man," he said. "Don't get arrested." Marcus had nodded - he'd been in line for another drink and already leaning against a counter. Good to know Jeff had his back, Marcus thought a little bitterly. It's not like two of their better players hadn't already gotten suspended for the season for drunk driving. Marcus was taking up the slack, and between the extra hits and ballet, his body never stopped aching these days.
Luckily, he'd abandoned his coat in the pile beneath the coat tree by the front door, not the one underneath Esca's girlfriend. He snatches up the parka - overkill for the early October air. Marcus pauses on the front porch to get his bearings and peer out at the darkened yard.
There're a couple guys smoking over by the fence, and Marcus catches a skunky whiff of it from all the way up here on the porch, and he spots Esca headed toward them, white coat practically glowing in the moonlight. As Marcus watches, Esca leans against the fence beside them, and for a moment, disappointment grips Marcus. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but if Esca has friends here... but the way the guys' body language is going, they don't seem to know Esca. One of them passes Esca the joint and Esca tilts his face toward the sky as he takes a long drag, tip glowing bright and warm. He passes it, and after several of Marcus's heartbeats, Esca lets out a billowing cloud of smoke.
The guys say something and Esca shakes his head, says something in return. Sounds of sympathy filter over, one of the guys claps Esca's back and passes the joint back. Esca takes another hit, and as he's blowing out the smoke he turns his head and meets Marcus's gaze, as if he knew all along he was being watched. He nods his head for Marcus to come over, and Marcus does, only stumbling once as he performs the difficult task of pulling on his coat while heading down the stairs.
"Football guy, this is--" he gestures for the guys to offer their names.
The shorter of the guys snickers. "I am IT guy, and this is, uh, what do you wanna be?"
"The looove machine," says the guy holding the joint.
"Yeah, try fucked up German porn guy."
"Hey!" says German porn guy. "That was like, two clips. Anyway, so who are you," he asks Esca.
"He's Ballet guy," Marcus offers.
Esca glares at Marcus.
"No shit, man?" IT guy looks Esca up and down, and Esca's relaxed posture shifts to something defensive. Then IT guy and German porn guy nod slowly. IT guy says, "Right on. I bet the chicks love that you're all bendy and shit. Or, like, dudes. Or whatever. It's all good." He glances at German porn guy, "Except that second clip. I don't judge, but that's just wrong man. Two girls one cup is one thing, but--"
"But I mean, at least that wasn't--"
"Yeah," they dissolve in a mass of giggles. When IT guy catches his breath, he holds out the joint to Marcus. "You're cool, Football guy, here."
"Thanks man, but, you know, drug tests."
"Oh, *wow*," says German Porn guy. "I'm so sorry man. That sucks."
Marcus shrugs. "There's always off season."
Someone calls from the porch about a gravity bong, and the two smokers turn in unison. "Later, guys, here," IT guy passes the roach to Esca. "You look like you need it," then he's trotting after the other guy toward the house.
Esca watches them for a moment, then takes a long hit off the little stub, then he tosses it to the grass and grinds it out with his heel. Marcus just stands there watching him, swaying a little, and he asks quietly, "You okay?"
"Hmm? Oh, yeah."
"My name's Marcus, by the way. Not football guy."
"Sorry, yeah. I'm just a little," he gestures at his head.
"It's okay. I get it. I don't expect you to remember me, you've probably--"
"I remember you," Esca says, looking up through his lashes. And for a long moment, Marcus's heart stops, because maybe. Then Esca goes down on one knee, and Marcus gasps. But Esca's no longer looking at Marcus, he's looking at the second floor of the house as he pulls a knife from his boot.
"Whoa," Marcus says as Esca rises. "Put that away."
"This doesn't concern you." Esca stares at the second floor window.
Marcus doesn't think, just reacts, lunging for Esca, getting a firm grip on his knife hand wrist and wrestling him into half-nelson on pretty much muscle memory alone. He squeezes hard enough to make Esca cry out as he drops the knife, and for several seconds, they strain against each other, locked in an embrace that Esca tries and fails to break. "It's not worth it," Marcus breathes into his ear. "She's not worth it, man, don't go there."
"Christ," Esca spits out. "Get off me." He slams his head back and Marcus narrowly avoids getting his jaw broken on the back of Esca's skull. "For fuck's sake, you ox, I wasn't going to stab the bitch." He stops struggling for a second.
"You're not going near her with that knife," Marcus says, firmly, because he's seen some good guys do some really stupid shit when they're fucked up and heartbroken. "You got that?"
"Who do you think you are? Who do you think *I* am?" He writhes and twists, nearly slips out of Marcus's grasp.
And Marcus could hold on, he could pin Esca to the ground, but the way Esca's lithe body keep sliding against his own, it's not doing his dick any favors. Or, it is, and that's the problem. He lets go of Esca with a small shove and fetches the knife from the ground before Esca can regain his balance. Then, he holds up both hands. "I don't know, all right. All I know's you're a little fucked up and that happened," he jerks a head at the house, "and then you pulled a knife."
"Give it back," Esca says, straightening his clothes. "Now."
"You gonna do something stupid?"
Esca is a good four or five inches and probably fifty pounds lighter than Marcus, but he steps up toe to toe, lifts his chin and if Marcus didn't have a good ten years of dealing with male posturing, he'd probably be cowed, because Esca is staring him down. Hard. It takes everything he's got not to step back, but he holds his ground and tightens his grip on the knife. Esca says evenly, "So what if I am? Who died and made you Batman?"
"Swear to me that you're not going back in there."
Esca rubs at his face, and groans into his hands. "I'm too damn high for this." Under his breath, he adds, "That was some serious--"
"Swear it!" Marcus demands.
"Fine. Yes, all right, I swear it. I'm done with her, done with party, and as soon as you give me back my father's knife, I'm done with you, you," he gestures confusingly at Marcus. "Muscle bound frat boy."
Marcus turns the knife and offers it to Esca, grip first. "I'm not in a frat. And just because I can't put my leg behind my head--"
"Are we done here?"
Marcus frowns. This is not going the way he meant it to go. Not that he had a good idea of what the hell he meant to happen when he came out here. "You went for a knife. What was I supposed to think?"
Esca narrows his eyes, then lifts the knife to his own throat, and before Marcus can do more than say, "Wait!", he's cutting through a leather cord around his neck. He flings the necklace to the ground, then drops to one knee again, tucking the knife back in his boot. Once he's pulled his pant leg back down again, he looks up at Marcus.
"Oh," Marcus says dumbly.
"Oh," Esca says. He rises once more and runs his hand through his shock of dirty blond hair, then shakes his head ruefully. "You planning on jumping me if I pull out a pack of fags?"
Marcus's eyes go wide. "'Scuse me?"
"Smokes. Cigarettes." Mockingly slow, he reaches into an inner pocket in his jacket and extracts a softsided pack of cigarettes whose warning label takes up much of the front. "Goddamnit," he says, shaking out broken cigarette after broken cigarette. Finally, after a few more curses that Marcus isn't convinced are all in English, he tears the filter off one and then extracts a Zippo from his (almost obscenely tight) jeans and lights it. After spitting out a bit of loose tobacco, he takes a long drag, and tips his head up toward the sky and slowly exhales. He stares at the moon through another drag, and when he looks back at Marcus again, Marcus is absolutely not transfixed by the line of his throat.
"You're still here," Esca says, but he doesn't sound pissed. Instead, it's almost... speculative.
*
1.
He meets Esca September of his sophomore year. Coach said that every one on the squad was required to take at least one dance class. More than half the guys had made a bee line for belly dancing, just for the girls. A few chose tap, and while Marcus considered modern dance, a quick survey of youtube yielded videos that were too weird for him to imagine enjoying himself, so he'd picked the only other dance class offered that semester: Ballet 101.
"Pretty faggy, Farkus," said a teammate after practice.
"That's not what your dad said, last night," Marcus said evenly, gathering three days worth of sweat crusted laundry from the bottom of his locker.
"Wait, what?"
*
It's a 7:30 a.m. class, which is probably why none of the other guys picked it. Which is part of why Marcus picked it, he doesn't mind making a fool of himself, but he'd rather not do it in front of his teammates. The instructor is at least three times his age, less than half his weight, and absolutely terrifying. The class is an eclectic mix, probably a third are girls who obviously have a background in the stuff and are looking for an easy out from the PE requirement. Most of the others are obviously as lost as he is.
The teacher eyes him all through the first two classes, like she's waiting for him to make trouble, but he keeps his mouth shut, pays attention, and tries his best to follow his instructions, even if none of his body parts want to turn in the direction she keeps barking at him about. She does, near the end of the second class, grudgingly praise his core strength, and when he mentions that he's done a little pilates for one of the other sports he did in high school, she seems to warm to him.
On the morning of the third class, he's still aching in places and ways he's not used to, but it's a good ache. He likes the challenge; he even likes the fact that, for once, he's not automatically one of the best in the room at something physical. He's going through some stretches, listening with half an ear to some of the girls talk about how if the teacher is more than ten minutes late, you get to leave. That's bullshit, and besides, it's only five minutes after when the class was supposed to start. The door opens and he doesn't bother looking up because he's trying to get his forehead a little closer to his knees for another thirty seconds. It's only when the girls fall silent that he lifts his head.
Someone's at the front of the class, bent in half at the waist, pushing down a pair of sweatpants to reveal grey tights over lean muscle. He steps out of the sweats and some slip off shoes, kicks them toward his duffel bag, then turns to face the class. He's still a pea coat on, as well as some black glasses and as he unbuttons himself quickly, he says, "Madam Keeffe is in the hospital. She's all right, she's just getting her gall bladder removed, if you want to send her flowers, I can get you the information after class, now can someone tell me what you learned last time?"
Marcus stares. He can't help it. The guy looks like he's *maybe* eighteen, sounds like he's straight out of some Dickens movie, and even though he's just getting undressed, he's just about the most graceful thing Marcus has ever seen. He swallows hard and goes back to stretching.
"Anyone?"
One of the girls fills him in, and then he says, "My name is Esca, and I'll be filling in for Madame Keeffe for the next few weeks." He's got this half serious, half bored look on his face as he scans the group, gliding right past Marcus, then turning his head back for a moment. Marcus knows he looks out of place, and he squares his shoulders. After a moment's eye contact that intimidates Marcus way more than it should - considering Esca doesn't seem to be pulling any alpha dog bullshit, and Marcus knows from alpha dog bullshit - Esca keeps scanning the class. After a nod, he points to the barre. "Well come on."
The only time Esca talks to him that first day is when he pauses in front of Marcus during plie's and tells him to tuck his rear end in. They don't even have their first conversation for another two classes. Marcus has no idea they'll be friends for another three classes after that.
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I particularly like the description of Esca, his casualness and aloofness, the mention of his accent, the fact that he is bent in half in that first image of him. *grin* What a thing to turn around and see.
Looking forward to more!
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MORE, PLEASE?
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It's four weeks later that Marcus finally speaks to Esca outside of class. It's late Friday night, and the party is at the house of a friend of a friend, a ten minute drive from campus. He wasn't keen on heading out, but someone who owes him money will be there, supposedly, and the third time his suitemate tells him, 'You're going', Marcus is already 5 beers in and losing at the Xbox tournament he half-assedly started a few hours ago, so fuck it, right?
Marcus wasn't looking to get hammered tonight any more than he was looking to get laid tonight, and none of that - none at all - had a thing to do with the fact that yesterday, after class, Esca's girlfriend came to pick him up. Nope. Nor does it have a thing to do with the fact that Marcus was comfortable with the fact of his bisexuality from the age of fourteen. Which he was. Only, he was way more comfortable with the fact that he was a kick ass football and baseball player from the age of eleven and those two things, three things really, do not actually work together. And so, Marcus dates girls. When the situation demands it, Marcus fucks girls. Marcus *likes* girls. He does. Almost as much as he likes the idea of going pro.
And he doesn't do anything so stupid as develop a crush on his incredibly flexible ballet teacher, who he hasn't said two words to outside of class. Nope.
Marcus stares at the TV in front of him and frowns. What he needs is to get laid. That's it. As his suitemate (and teammate) grabs his keys, Marcus calls, "Hold up," because he's not getting laid if he hangs around here, now is he? No, no he's not. And he's not drunk either, just on that blissful edge of a buzz where one good red plastic cup of shitty punch will be just enough to send him over the edge. And well past the stupidity of thinking about he-who-shall-remain-nameless, and his stupid flexibility, and his stupid, gorgeous, totally straight ass.
Fuck.
*
The party is *loud*, and the house is all but gutted. Someone, apparently, was having a moving out celebration, and that someone was well past getting their deposit back, if the holes in the sheetrock along the stairs are any indication. He doesn't know most of the people here - but some of them know him, including two girls who keep following him around and parking themselves wherever he sits. He's trying to track down the asshole who owes him two hundred - he's seen the guy twice from across the room - but he's already two more cups into the night, and he's slow. Slower than he wants to be. The pounding music drops tempo sharply into some trippy, dubstep number he half recognizes, and the heat and the smoke gets to him all of a sudden.
He climbs the stairs to the second floor in search of a bathroom, and he's about to get in line when he recognizes spring green scarf slung over a guy's shoulder. Sandy hair. And posture like, like... "Esca!" he calls, grinning. "What are you doing here?" Esca is standing half in the last doorway on the left, and he doesn't look up when Marcus calls. Marcus tries again, and shoulders past the knots of students, till he's standing right beside the guy. He grins. "It's me, Marcus, from class."
Esca barely turns his head, gives Marcus half a nod, but he's got this look of nausea on his face that worries Marcus.
"You okay, man? You gonna be sick? Bathroom's--" Marcus finally looks where Esca is looking. It's an empty bedroom, empty except for a bare mattress on the floor, and a topless girl grinding with some guy with his pants around his knees, half on top of a pile of coats that's sliding off the mattress. "Who's that?" Marcus asks.
"That's my girlfriend," Esca says, his even voice at odds with disgust he's got on his face.
"You're, uh, into that?" Marcus asks.
That seems to shake Esca out of it. "No," he spits out. "I am not." He fishes a set of keys out of his pocket and hurls them into the room - they hit the wall above the bed, loudly enough to startle the couple.
She looks up, bleary eyed, first at Esca, then down at the keys. "It's not," she says, but before she can finish her sentence, Esca's striding away, and Marcus can't think of anything better to do than follow him, down the hall, down the stairs, and into the chilly front yard.
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L;DKELW;DKEW;DKEW;LDKEW;KDE;WLDFJWLKNCLJDKC
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Luckily, he'd abandoned his coat in the pile beneath the coat tree by the front door, not the one underneath Esca's girlfriend. He snatches up the parka - overkill for the early October air. Marcus pauses on the front porch to get his bearings and peer out at the darkened yard.
There're a couple guys smoking over by the fence, and Marcus catches a skunky whiff of it from all the way up here on the porch, and he spots Esca headed toward them, white coat practically glowing in the moonlight. As Marcus watches, Esca leans against the fence beside them, and for a moment, disappointment grips Marcus. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but if Esca has friends here... but the way the guys' body language is going, they don't seem to know Esca. One of them passes Esca the joint and Esca tilts his face toward the sky as he takes a long drag, tip glowing bright and warm. He passes it, and after several of Marcus's heartbeats, Esca lets out a billowing cloud of smoke.
The guys say something and Esca shakes his head, says something in return. Sounds of sympathy filter over, one of the guys claps Esca's back and passes the joint back. Esca takes another hit, and as he's blowing out the smoke he turns his head and meets Marcus's gaze, as if he knew all along he was being watched. He nods his head for Marcus to come over, and Marcus does, only stumbling once as he performs the difficult task of pulling on his coat while heading down the stairs.
"Football guy, this is--" he gestures for the guys to offer their names.
The shorter of the guys snickers. "I am IT guy, and this is, uh, what do you wanna be?"
"The looove machine," says the guy holding the joint.
"Yeah, try fucked up German porn guy."
"Hey!" says German porn guy. "That was like, two clips. Anyway, so who are you," he asks Esca.
"He's Ballet guy," Marcus offers.
Esca glares at Marcus.
"No shit, man?" IT guy looks Esca up and down, and Esca's relaxed posture shifts to something defensive. Then IT guy and German porn guy nod slowly. IT guy says, "Right on. I bet the chicks love that you're all bendy and shit. Or, like, dudes. Or whatever. It's all good." He glances at German porn guy, "Except that second clip. I don't judge, but that's just wrong man. Two girls one cup is one thing, but--"
"But I mean, at least that wasn't--"
"Yeah," they dissolve in a mass of giggles. When IT guy catches his breath, he holds out the joint to Marcus. "You're cool, Football guy, here."
"Thanks man, but, you know, drug tests."
"Oh, *wow*," says German Porn guy. "I'm so sorry man. That sucks."
Marcus shrugs. "There's always off season."
Someone calls from the porch about a gravity bong, and the two smokers turn in unison. "Later, guys, here," IT guy passes the roach to Esca. "You look like you need it," then he's trotting after the other guy toward the house.
Esca watches them for a moment, then takes a long hit off the little stub, then he tosses it to the grass and grinds it out with his heel. Marcus just stands there watching him, swaying a little, and he asks quietly, "You okay?"
"Hmm? Oh, yeah."
"My name's Marcus, by the way. Not football guy."
"Sorry, yeah. I'm just a little," he gestures at his head.
"It's okay. I get it. I don't expect you to remember me, you've probably--"
"I remember you," Esca says, looking up through his lashes. And for a long moment, Marcus's heart stops, because maybe. Then Esca goes down on one knee, and Marcus gasps. But Esca's no longer looking at Marcus, he's looking at the second floor of the house as he pulls a knife from his boot.
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"This doesn't concern you." Esca stares at the second floor window.
Marcus doesn't think, just reacts, lunging for Esca, getting a firm grip on his knife hand wrist and wrestling him into half-nelson on pretty much muscle memory alone. He squeezes hard enough to make Esca cry out as he drops the knife, and for several seconds, they strain against each other, locked in an embrace that Esca tries and fails to break. "It's not worth it," Marcus breathes into his ear. "She's not worth it, man, don't go there."
"Christ," Esca spits out. "Get off me." He slams his head back and Marcus narrowly avoids getting his jaw broken on the back of Esca's skull. "For fuck's sake, you ox, I wasn't going to stab the bitch." He stops struggling for a second.
"You're not going near her with that knife," Marcus says, firmly, because he's seen some good guys do some really stupid shit when they're fucked up and heartbroken. "You got that?"
"Who do you think you are? Who do you think *I* am?" He writhes and twists, nearly slips out of Marcus's grasp.
And Marcus could hold on, he could pin Esca to the ground, but the way Esca's lithe body keep sliding against his own, it's not doing his dick any favors. Or, it is, and that's the problem. He lets go of Esca with a small shove and fetches the knife from the ground before Esca can regain his balance. Then, he holds up both hands. "I don't know, all right. All I know's you're a little fucked up and that happened," he jerks a head at the house, "and then you pulled a knife."
"Give it back," Esca says, straightening his clothes. "Now."
"You gonna do something stupid?"
Esca is a good four or five inches and probably fifty pounds lighter than Marcus, but he steps up toe to toe, lifts his chin and if Marcus didn't have a good ten years of dealing with male posturing, he'd probably be cowed, because Esca is staring him down. Hard. It takes everything he's got not to step back, but he holds his ground and tightens his grip on the knife. Esca says evenly, "So what if I am? Who died and made you Batman?"
"Swear to me that you're not going back in there."
Esca rubs at his face, and groans into his hands. "I'm too damn high for this." Under his breath, he adds, "That was some serious--"
"Swear it!" Marcus demands.
"Fine. Yes, all right, I swear it. I'm done with her, done with party, and as soon as you give me back my father's knife, I'm done with you, you," he gestures confusingly at Marcus. "Muscle bound frat boy."
Marcus turns the knife and offers it to Esca, grip first. "I'm not in a frat. And just because I can't put my leg behind my head--"
"Are we done here?"
Marcus frowns. This is not going the way he meant it to go. Not that he had a good idea of what the hell he meant to happen when he came out here. "You went for a knife. What was I supposed to think?"
Esca narrows his eyes, then lifts the knife to his own throat, and before Marcus can do more than say, "Wait!", he's cutting through a leather cord around his neck. He flings the necklace to the ground, then drops to one knee again, tucking the knife back in his boot. Once he's pulled his pant leg back down again, he looks up at Marcus.
"Oh," Marcus says dumbly.
"Oh," Esca says. He rises once more and runs his hand through his shock of dirty blond hair, then shakes his head ruefully. "You planning on jumping me if I pull out a pack of fags?"
Marcus's eyes go wide. "'Scuse me?"
"Smokes. Cigarettes." Mockingly slow, he reaches into an inner pocket in his jacket and extracts a softsided pack of cigarettes whose warning label takes up much of the front. "Goddamnit," he says, shaking out broken cigarette after broken cigarette. Finally, after a few more curses that Marcus isn't convinced are all in English, he tears the filter off one and then extracts a Zippo from his (almost obscenely tight) jeans and lights it. After spitting out a bit of loose tobacco, he takes a long drag, and tips his head up toward the sky and slowly exhales. He stares at the moon through another drag, and when he looks back at Marcus again, Marcus is absolutely not transfixed by the line of his throat.
"You're still here," Esca says, but he doesn't sound pissed. Instead, it's almost... speculative.
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eep, waiting for more!
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