Impulsive--adj, having a drive to follow one's instincts
Closure--n, the sense of finality and coming to terms with an experience
"Marc."
"Cliff." His throat is suddenly dry. His hand twitches in the direction of his wine, but he's afraid to take a sip. If his attention is diverted for even a second, then Cliff will obviously disappear. "What are you doing here?"
His hands fly up somewhat spastically so his chin is resting in his palm--casual, composed, no matter what the widening of his eyes or the high-pitched tone of his voice seem to convey. Cliff looks good. Little curls of sienna hair tickle his ears, longer than before, and Marc had forgotten how endearing the scuff is. His outfit, a dark brown jacket over an olive green t-shirt, is so 2006, but at least the jacket is a passable knock-off of an actual name brand.
"I'm here to talk about a job," Cliff says, jerking his head at a table of two more well-dressed businessmen. "And you? Are you-- on a date, or…?"
Marc tries to bolster through it. He fails.
"Oh, no. No, I'm just, you know, having dinner." He sees, as if for the first time, the dark tablecloth and the candles on every table. The lighting isn't strictly romantic, but he's still pathetic. "Alone," he concludes with a sad smile.
"You look good."
His spine straightens, and he tries to make the grin that stretches across his face just a little less delighted. "Thanks. You, too, you look-- you look great. So, this job, for a magazine, or what?"
"Yeah, yeah, it's for a series of covers for some modeling magazine whose-- whose name I probably shouldn't have forgotten in the time it takes to go to the bathroom," he admits with a little laugh. Marc feels like his corresponding laugh is much too loud, but Cliff isn't taking his eyes off of him, and it's making him nervous. "How's Mode? Things got a little tricky in the past few months, huh?"
"Oh, Mode, Mode's great, there were a few failed coups, but-- I'm an editor now, a junior editor, so--"
"That's awesome!"
"Yeah, it kind of is," he agrees.
The clinking of forks and polite laughter provide a tune that coincides nicely with the roaring in his ears as Cliff continues to stare at him, reading his eyes. Marc hopes he's sending out the right message. Suddenly, Cliff puts one hand on the table and leans in just a little bit. The conversation is now private. He smells nice.
"Can I ask you a blunt question?"
"Sure. Fire away." His breath is gone.
"What did you do when we broke up?"
Marc grasps the wine stem with shaking fingers and takes a quick sip. He needs either alcohol or his inhaler for this question, and he'd also like to keep his dignity.
"Honestly?" He clears his throat and avoids his ex-boyfriend's eyes. "I called Betty and yelled at her, because every time she tells me to tell the truth it seems like I lose someone forever, and then I went home and watched Psycho six times in three days, around work. Crying," he admits, quickly smothering the word with another sip of wine. "And then I got the box…" The box of things he had left at Cliff's apartment, which had been sitting on his kitchen table one afternoon with his key on top. Cliff's things had vanished from drawers and closets all around the apartment. "I called in sick the next morning and watched Psycho six times in one day."
He chances a look upward. The smile on Cliff's face is bittersweet, but even so it's more than Marc has ever expected to see again. What he told Justin about kissing, about someone kissing you with so much love that the world seems to turn grey, that was a flat-out lie, because even this wry smile is making the corners of his eyes flicker into grey. He has no idea what would happen if Cliff smiled and kissed like they used to, when they were actually in love. The entire world would go black, maybe, and never return.
"Okay. That's…" He glances at the table where his companions are waiting, and rubs a hand over the back of his head. "Hey, do you want to get a drink or something when I'm done here?"
He regularly handles clothes that are worth more than he is, he has met numerous celebrities, and his boss is unanimously the most frightening woman in the world. Still, his heat leaps into his throat and he clamps his jaw shut to keep from letting it slip up his esophagus and into his mouth, flopping out onto his plate. That would be embarrassing.
Instead, he nods jerkily, with a little smile on his face. Cliff gives a nervous smile back, clearly nonplussed by his own actions. His fingers tap on the tabletop and he walks away. Marc almost collapses, but at the last moment he remembers that he is not Betty Suarez, and that he has poise. He snatches a complimentary roll from the basket and stuffs it into his mouth. He'll regret it later, when he tries to fit into his new Armani grey pleated trousers, but he needs to soak up the glass and a half of wine he's already drank. If this is the very last night he is ever going to spend with Cliff, he is not going to spend it drunk.
---
I must be drunk, he thinks. This is not happening.
Except it is happening. He's sitting on Cliff's couch with the back against the armrest, his one drink--only half-empty--is on the ground, and Cliff's mouth is pressed, unmoving, against his own. He can feel the tension in the air, and he knows its source. He can only imagine Cliff's thoughts--what the hell was I thinking, he broke my heart, do I really want to get into this again?
Or maybe not, because he surges forward and kisses Marc like they've never stopped. Marc's eyes are wide open. He meets Cliff's gaze, but then a hand touches the back of his neck and Cliff's eyes close, and Marc freaks out.
He should close his eyes and keep kissing his ex and maybe sleep with him, because face it--this was the best relationship he's ever had. But sleeping with men without considering the consequences is the reason he doesn't have Cliff's ring on his finger right now, so he sighs and pushes him away.
"I--"
"Don't," Cliff says. He smiles a real, welcome, familiar smile, and Marc's heart melts. "Let's not analyze this, okay, or-- or try to think of it in terms of what we were, or--" He sighs, but not dejectedly, and takes Marc's face in his hands. "Let's just be impulsive, okay?"
Okay.
---
They have sex on a blanket spread out on Cliff's floor. A romantic might say they "made love" and maybe they do, but it's not quite that. It's like they're rediscovering what it would feel like to be in love again. When they're done, they lie on the floor and Marc curls into Cliff's shoulder like he used to on sunny Saturdays when the last thing ever on his mind was moving. As soon as he does, he freezes--this might be out of bounds. He's relieved when Cliff smiles and bumps against his curls in a clumsy kiss.
"Is this--closure?" he asks, hating himself for saying it.
"I don't know," Cliff admits. "I thought it was, but this feels-- you feel--" He wraps his arms around Marc's body and readjusts so they're face to face. He breathes in the familiar, missed scents of mingled sex and cologne. "--right," he finishes lamely.
"I missed you," he admits. "And Mr. Gutly," he adds on a spur-of-the-moment craving for whimsy, poking Cliff's stomach. Cliff laughs loudly.
"Oh my God."
Marc just smiles.
"You are… you are." Cliff grins. "Listen, Marc, I don't know if I can do this again."
His heart rate, which has just started to calm down, speeds up again. He pushes up on his elbow. "There is no 'again,'" he insists. "It wouldn't be the same. I've--grown up a lot, the past few months, and I've… missed you." He's repeating himself, but hey, what can he do? He's still floating up in the air from the post-orgasmic high and his heart is aching like a bruise.
"I missed you too," Cliff admits. He pulls him down for a kiss. "I don't forgive you," he adds quickly.
"I wouldn't want you to."
"But," he sighs. "At least you were honest. Not everyone is… some people have wives and kids in Connecticut that they don't tell people about, so there's that."
Marc shoots up again. "Am I a rebound?" he asks, and he has no right to be so incensed, but he is.
"No, no, no," Cliff says, offering up his arms. Marc settles down in them. "My friend Jesse--well, let's just say it hasn't been the best year for him, either."
The implication that Cliff has had a crappy year is in there, and it should make him feel bad, but the time since they broke up hasn't been a walk in the park for Marc either, and he likes knowing that he's needed.
"Hm."
He bends a little bit so he's in a more comfortable position, and hides his face in Cliff's chest. This-- this cuddling, he hasn't done this in a while, and it feels so good. They're not on Egyptian cotton or listening to fancy music or any of that crap, and Cliff hasn't miraculously gained a six pack since they've ended, but fuck that. This feels better than Troy did, better than Gus ever would have felt, and he honestly can't stop himself from whispering, "I love you."
"There's that, too," Cliff says sleepily, and Marc smiles. He can see the window from where he is, but the skies cloudy, so he wishes on the stars that he knows are there, even if they're hiding. Cliff is starting to snore just a tiny bit, and Marc lets his eyes drift shut. For once, he's not going to ask questions or ponder everything that thought that comes his way. He's going to fall asleep with the man he loves, and try to get back whatever they lost, and… be impulsive.
A/N: I'll admit it--I'm a sucker for a happy ending. But while I was writing this piece, it didn't feel like it wanted a happy ending. It kept sounding more like Marc and Cliff getting the closure the series didn't give them. So I ended it on a purposefully ambiguous note. If you want to believe that they started a hesitant relationship, and the rediscovery of the laughs and cute nicknames and such won out--you're right. That's why Mr. Gutly was mentioned. If you want to believe that Cliff went to work the next morning and left a note saying he couldn't deal with it, and Marc was sad but understanding--you're right. That's why the tone is so bittersweet.
The point is--EVERYONE'S RIGHT. I will NOT be writing a sequel to explain what happened. Do not ask me for sequel. Do not hint for a sequel. Do not say "This was good, and I won't ask for a sequel even though it would be amazing." No. None of that. I'm sorry if I sound mean, but the past two times I've posted a no-sequel disclaimer, I've gotten one-word reviews saying "sequel?" and it's starting to annoy me. Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you take the time to review.