A/N: written for Labil for the prompt "Mark/Derek - escape.' The title is a quotation from E.E. Cummings

The river's quiet. The trout aren't really biting today, but it's a nice day and nobody really minds. One of those days like movie summers where the sun gets lazily hot in the afternoon and even the air seems laid-back, filled with buzzing bees.

Your dad is dozing. If questioned, he'll say he's resting his eyes but there's a definite bias towards full-blown sleep.

Mark is lying on his stomach, reading a book. He hates fishing, but he comes along because he likes being with you and your dad. You crouch down next to him and he squints at you, shielding his eyes against the sun.

"You want to do something?" you ask.

He raises an eyebrow. "Like . . . ?"

You shrug. Honestly, apart from fishing, there isn't much to do here. The need to appease the non-existent trout prevents anything loud or energetic. That and the heat.

"I dunno," you say. "Take a walk, maybe?" You know he's going to roll his eyes at this (and he does). But you also know he's going to say yes, because Mark likes exercise and even a walk counts when there aren't any better options.

He dog-ears the page he's on and stands up slowly, stretching. He's wearing jeans and a white t-shirt and when he stretches the thin fabric shows off his hard muscles and a little sweat at the neckline.

Something stirs in you, watching him: a little envy and a little pleasure in the fact that this guy is your friend.

"You coming?" he interrupts your thoughts.

"Yes," you say, too decisively. You feel as though you were caught doing something you shouldn't, but you're not quite sure what it is.

Inside the wood, it's cooler. You're sitting on the ground together, backs up against a tree.

"How was your date with, uh . . .?"

"Okay," Mark shrugs, not bothering to supply the girl's name (which you now remember is Phoebe). An aversive look spreads over his face. "Actually, not okay. Didn't get past first base."

You laugh slightly (it's unheard of for Mark to strike out with a girl) and that puts him on the defensive.

"Didn't want to get past first base." The aversive look returns. "She's," he screws up his face and smacks his lips slightly, as though trying to get rid of a bad taste. "She's a weird kisser . . . like slobbery, you know? Really slobbery. And just . . . weird." He shakes his head.

You feel compelled to defend Phoebe. She's blonde and pretty and kind of friendly considering she's a cheerleader and you're a band geek. "She's cute," you say. "Anyway doesn't everyone slobber when they kiss?"

"Not like this," he says. "She's a fucking waterfall. Don't go there, man," he warns (mocking you a little – because, friendly or not, you both know Phoebe would have to gross out every eligible male in school with her saliva before she'd look at you that way).

Then a mortifying thought strikes you and your hand goes of its own accord to explore your lips for any excess wetness. "How do you know?" you ask. "If you're . . . slobbery?"

Mark shrugs. "'Cause someone tells you?" he offers.

"Did you tell Phoebe?"

"Nah." He shakes his head, completely unconcerned. "You think we should go back to your old man . . . make sure he hasn't fallen in?"

You ignore him. "So she could go through life being rejected by guys and never knowing why?"

"Dude, she went out with Jason Petmann for four months and she dumped him." He stares at you, incredulous. "Why do you care, anyway? If you like her, just tell her for fuck's sake. The worst she can do is blow you off . . . or drown you." He grins, then stands up. "Let's go, Derek."

"I don't like her," you say. "I mean, I do. But not . . . that's not the point. The point is, what if I'm a slobberer?"

"Then I'm not taking you to the prom," he jokes, setting off without you. Then he stops, turns back and looks at you, still sitting on the ground. "You're actually worried about this?"

You nod.

"So . . ." He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He seems agitated; you assume you're pissing him off. "Kiss the back of your hand or something. That oughta give you an idea."

You cringe. It's not like you haven't practiced on your hand before, but not in public and definitely not in front of Mark.

"It's fine," you say, standing up, brushing bits of leaves off your jeans. You avoid looking at Mark's face (you're certain he's laughing at you). "I'm just being paranoid. I'm –"

"Oh, for the love of God, Derek!" He strides towards you.

You're too shocked to even struggle as his hands surround – almost grip - your cheeks and angle your face upwards to meet his hard, angry kiss.

Then his tongue is in your mouth and, for a moment, you honestly think you might gag. Until you realize it doesn't feel too bad. It's almost nice.

The image of Mark stretching in the sun - the muscles, that little sweaty patch - sparks in your mind and you can't help your tongue meeting his.

And that's the moment he pulls away.

He stares at the ground, kicking at it with the toe of his sneaker. "You kiss fine," he mumbles, then he raises an eyebrow just enough to see you without giving the impression of really looking. "Happy now?"

"You kissed me," you say stupidly, still processing your reaction. "Why?"

"Because you're an idiot." Then his eyes lock with yours (you never noticed the blue-gray color before) and his voice softens. "And so am I."

You don't know what to say. You don't know what this means (about you, or him or anything) and deflection seems like the best route out of this.

"So," you begin carefully, "I'm not a slobberer?"

He shakes his head; offers you an uncomfortable grin. "I'm still not taking you to the prom."

"Good to know."

You walk back to the riverbank together pretending nothing happened.

But even though you don't know what you want from this (or if you want it at all) you don't want it to be over.

"Are you coming fishing with us again next weekend?" you ask him.

He hesitates for a second, scans your eyes, and then he smiles. "Sure. Yeah." His smile broadens. "I'd like that."