A/N: Written for my friend Katie. They're super cute and super queer. You can go send them love at fredericktrumper dot tumblr dot com. This is a work in progress but hopefully I'll be able to finish it...
The waiting room smells like one of those Glade plug-in air fresheners gone wrong. It's so strong that it makes Mark's eyes water, one foot in the room, one hand on the door.
He can still leave, if he really wants. Just sit on the steps inside and wait out the hour, then go down and plaster on a smile and tell his mom, "It was fine, he's okay, I don't think I need to go back."
Mark is perfectly fine. It's everyone else who says he isn't.
He takes an apple-cinnamon breath and holds it, forcing himself to slip inside (he's nothing if not obedient, he hates it, he hates himself – that's why he's here, though, isn't it? damn it) and seat himself gingerly on one of the blue plush chairs. It bounces; he'd expected it to be hard, for some reason, but it's more comfortable than his desk chair at home.
The clock is horrendously loud. It ticks away the seconds and stares him down from above the doorway, as if daring him to try and escape now.
Tick, tick, tick –
The carpet is short and tough and dark blue. It matches the seats, almost. Not quite. It bothers him that they're not the same.
Tick, tick –
There is a pile of colorful blocks in the corner, in a short wooden box. There is a bookshelf, also short, with picture books on the bottom shelf and coloring books on the one above it, and a basket of crayons laying neatly on top.
Mark wishes he were a child. He needs a distraction. Coloring sounds nice – no one would probably know if he just plucked one up and settled in to meticulously shade in a smiling cat.
Tick, tick, tick, tick –
The plaque on the door had read "Dr. Khaleesi" and below that "Dr. Steele", but there is only one door inside. He wonders if they share an office, and then why they would. It's not practical. They'd be halving the number of patients they could see.
He thinks he remembers April mentioning something about this place. He's pretty sure she used to go here.
Tick. Tick. Tick…
He doesn't want to think about April.
There's sweat beading on his brow. It's mid-September. It's not really even very warm outside. It's been two months now.
Ticktickticktick –
Has it really been two months? "Fuck."
He says it out loud because otherwise it would all just be in his head, like everything else.
If he looks to the side of him he might see them, he might see all of them, any of them, smiling at him – worse, frowning, pleading. Mark, why didn't you talk me out of it? Mark. You could have saved me. Mark. You're supposed to be the responsible one…
It's not like it had been his idea.
His breath is coming short and shallow. He needs to get out of here.
He stands, reaching for the door. It opens suddenly, violently.
Tick. Tick.
Mark freezes. The other boy glances right past him, moving to take what appears to be a well-worn, familiar seat in the corner by the blocks. He crosses his legs and steeples his fingers in his lap, staring up at the ceiling.
The door swings shut, and he can't find the courage to touch it again.
Ten minutes left. Why do I have to be so early to everything.
He hates his mother, just like he hates everyone else.
He's not sure if he hates this boy yet. He scans him, notes everything about him, his hands itching for the old Polaroid that Roger had gotten for him for his birthday last year. The boy's hair is dark and cut short and his hands twitch and his fingers tap. He is dressed in a white t-shirt with a pocket on the front and a pair of old, pale jeans. He fidgets, his eyes roaming over the ceiling, seemingly intent on his own boredom.
Mark thinks his eyes are blue. He cranes his neck to look, just to check, just to be sure.
The clock is still ticking. He puts it gratefully to the back of his mind. He has something to focus on, an object, a subject rather.
He wishes he would have brought his camera.
(He hasn't touched his camera in weeks.)
The door opens. It is five minutes early. The man standing there is not brown-skinned, as he'd expected; he's pale and lanky and his eyes are gray as his hair and he looks right past him to the other boy, Mark's subject. "Freddie? I'm ready for you."
And miraculously, he sits up, stares him right in the eye, and responds lazily. "If I have to."
"You do."
He stands. He's taller than Mark; he's about Roger's height. His eyes are so pale blue that it's disconcerting. Mark wants to look at them a while longer, he wants to recreate them. He wants to see if he can capture that color somewhere else.
They disappear beyond the door and Mark is alone.
Tick. Tick. Tick….
He's never coming back. They can't make him. He can still go, he can still sit on the stairs and wait the hour, just wait it out. Might even see Freddie pass by on his way home. Maybe he could even –
"Mark Cohen?"
"Yeah. That's me…"
It had been a stupid idea in the first place. Going to the beach in the middle of the night. Breaking into Joanne's uncle's cottage. Letting Roger steer.
Roger had been drinking (they'd all been drinking, all except Mark, who wouldn't on the grounds that he didn't really feel like it and everyone knew better than to push him, he was always the one to pussy out) and Mark had smiled nervously and said, maybe next time, in typical Mark fashion.
It was dark and the hum of the motor was quiet. They disappeared into the lake, all six of them.
He'd waited all night at the table, until he fell asleep, facing the window, and when he woke up they still weren't back. The lake was still, the sun was bright, the cottage was silent.
He was alone.
