Title: Mouth
Summary: He remembered her mouth (and his mother's mouth, wide and open, screaming as she fell). He remembered the cool bottle of champagne pressed up against Rachel's neck, and the small wet impression her lips made against the glass.
Notes: This is set right after book 35 (The Proposal) ends. Marco doesn't know if his mother is alive or dead. The last he saw of her was in book 30 (The Reunion) as she fell down a cliff.
This will be a two part story.
Part I: For Better of Worse
The words were whispers between his teeth.
Through sickness and health, for richer or poorer, 'til death do us part.
For better or worse, for better or worse, for better or worse.
Marco slumped forward, anchoring his arms on his bent knees in front of him. He sat on a low wall overlooking the rest of the wedding guests in the dim light. Small paper lanterns were strung up in the trees, and the fading sun had just dipped below the horizon. He clamped his teeth together, and let out a heavy exhale with those quiet words echoing in his mind. For better or worse.
Only a few people remained at the outdoor reception area. The resort staff was busy folding up chairs, and clearing away tables of discarded dishes. One couple continued dancing to the quiet purr of music that was seeping from the speakers on the empty dance floor. He found himself hating those people on the dance floor. Their comfortable stances. Their mouths. Mostly their smiling.
The anger was a dull beat in the base of his stomach.
He should be happy too. Marco should be happy. His father had finally gotten remarried, found peace of mind, fallen back in love. For better or worse. He should be happy that his father wasn't lonely anymore, that he no longer stared at Marco with those dead eyes that had haunted his face for two years. But he couldn't stop thinking about his mother.
His mother, oh god: Beautiful, unstoppable, alive, (breathing, warm, mouth, smiling) and dead (a corpse, rotting). Thoughts were there too, thoughts of dying.
Mostly her dying.
It played in his mind like a nightmare: The small, horrifying second when his mother was no longer standing on solid ground; the rushing panic in her eyes; the shape of her mouth; the muted, strangled noise that came from the back of her throat as she cried out in fear. And what always followed was the falling. Eva would fall, and sometimes Marco would fall with her. If he thought hard enough, he could even hear the violent snapping of her bones, as her soft, warm body collided with jagged rocks under the cliff. He could remember the brutal, ugly fear inside his stomach—milky white and hot—and the cool, sick relief that washed over his insides, hollowing him out like a jack-o-lantern.
The emptiness. A jack-o-lantern. Rotting. A fall wedding. Falling. For better or worse.
Marco's eyes lifted again. Laughter now, from the dance floor. Two resort staff members were talking a few yards away. There was the clatter of dishes being stacked and taken away, and his heavy breathing, shaky and broken.
She lived and died in his mind.
But mostly she died.
Marco leaned his head back, looking up at the quiet gray sky. The sun hovered in the distance, hazy and overcast by clouds. He swallowed audibly, trying to clear the direction his thoughts were going, but his mind would not obey. He had been drinking earlier, sneaking glasses of champagne at the wedding reception, until he felt light and easy and free. Now, he couldn't quite keep things in focus. There is a corpse in my stomach, he thought distantly. A dead thing down my throat.
Suddenly he heard the approach of footsteps.
And this melancholy longing is climbing into my mouth, hungry for something sweet and dark.
It was Rachel.
He could tell by the click of her shoes on the pavement. She was wearing those goddamn heels that made her look like a goddess on stilts. It wasn't often that she dressed up. She was heart-breakingly beautiful on a bad day. On a day like this, in the cooling autumn air, and shoes like that, she owned every person who dared to lift their eyes in her direction. Marco felt his fingernails dig into the soft skin of his palm as he tightened his fist.
Rachel's voice was clear and biting. "Are you hiding?" And the implied, Are you a coward?
He flicked his eyes in her direction, and something funny happened to his throat when he saw her in the dim light. She was beautiful, and she was challenging him. She was challenging him with three easy words, when he felt pathetic and alone. Nothing could stop her—not even the fall, he imagined (and the words were there in his mind like a chant: falling, warm body colliding, diving head first into the rocks).
Rachel was looking at him expectantly, still clear, still biting. He suddenly felt like he might cry. "Aren't we always hiding?" he managed, his voice cracking.
There was something in her eyes then, for a split second. And Marco hated himself for letting this emotion seep into his voice. He hated himself for letting her see him like this. He was rotting like a gutted pumpkin; there was a dead thing in his stomach. But he didn't act like this in front of anyone—in front of Rachel. He didn't cry or hide at weddings. And she didn't look at him with… What had been in her eyes then, for that split second?
Disappointment?
Pity?
Fuck.
But Rachel was doing her part not to mention it. She even had a funny little smirk, he realized, and he felt a small relief wash over him. Thank god for that mouth of hers. That terrible, snarky little mouth.
"So, what? You going to dance or just sit on the sidelines like some loser?" she asked, motioning to the empty dance floor.
Marco took a breath to compose himself, made sure his voice wouldn't betray him again. Then he said, "I probably shouldn't. When I dance, all women fling themselves at me uncontrollably."
She laughed. He found himself staring at her mouth as she laughed. That terrible, snarky little mouth that he was thanking god for. It reminded him of something. Something dizzy. Something heated. Something dark and hungry and alive. Something.
And god... he couldn't help it. Who could blame him when he was confronted with that fucking mouth? She was smiling now, the corners of her lips twisted into a sweet, little curve, like she knew how easy it would be to swallow him whole. He felt a small warmth at imagining her wobbling on those tall shoes, as he would grab her roughly by the hair and bite down into her bottom lip. Yes, that mouth would be his fucking downfall if she kept at it.
Marco suddenly noticed the bottle of champagne she was dangling in one hand.
"And what is that for?" He asked, nodding towards the alcohol.
The smirk returned. A breath of air passed between parted lips. "Let's walk."
They were quiet then, walking along the paths that ambled through the hotel courtyard, outwards, towards the resort golf course. The air was heavy, but chilly. They passed the bottle of alcohol between them, each taking a gulp or two silently, letting it slip down the back of their throats.
Marco cradled the bottle of champagne, enjoying the weight of the glass in his hands. He liked thinking that only moments earlier Rachel's lips had been pressed up against the rim of the bottle, leaving a sweet and wet impression of her mouth along the glass. His thumb brushed over that spot a few times as he wondered how many glasses of champagne he had swiped earlier that evening. Did it even matter? Did it matter when it was cool outside, and there was a corpse in his stomach?
Rachel reached for the bottle. Seconds later she made a small noise.
Marco's eyes darted over to her and he saw that she was pressing the cold bottle against the front of her neck. She leaned her head back, the long slope of her neck like a path leading straight to her ample cleavage. The perspiration on the outside of the glass dampened the edge of her light colored dress and Marco's focus zeroed in on the semi-transparent fabric by her chest. It lifted and fell with her breathing, and a kind of guilty, dark heat nested in the back of his mouth. He felt like a snake with a sack of venom between his teeth. He was dizzy and warm and ready to sink right into her and make her cry out from the pain. And brave, beautiful, untamable Rachel would whimper below him...
His fantasy was disrupted when she roughly shoved the bottle of champagne back into his hands.
"What are you still doing here, anyway?" he asked hoarsely, forcing his eyes upward to her face.
She shrugged, sending a wave through her long golden hair. It caught and faded in the dim light, and the heat in Marco's mouth seemed to bloom down over his chest. "Cassie and Jake disappeared together," she said, raising one eyebrow. "Tobias and Ax had to bail to go demorph."
"So, why don't you just go home?" Marco pressed, looking down at the scuff on his shiny shoe.
"Because I—" she stopped herself, and fell still beside him.
His stomach tightened as he realized why she was still here with him. He stopped walking too, and they stood there, shoulder to shoulder. He kept his eyes trained downwards, cursing under his breath. Don't say it, he pleaded silently. Don't confess that you are worried about me.
A few beats of silence passed. Marco let out a slow breath, suddenly aware that their elbows were bumping.
Rachel finally leaned over and yanked the bottle of champagne back from Marco's hands. "I just wanted to get into some normal, stupid teenage trouble," she said, wagging the champagne bottle in front of his face. "Is that so wrong?"
Marco felt more at ease now that he wasn't touching her. Even her elbows could undo him. "Trouble, huh? You sure you'll be able to handle that, Xena?"
She gave him a wild grin, proof that she could handle anything. Marco clenched his fists. She had no idea that snarky, little mouth was killing him.
His dark troubling thoughts were still there, plaguing his mind, and the small fantasies of Rachel too, that he kept tucked in the air between them. And oh how sweet, he thought distantly, maybe a little drunk, between us, something. Something hungry. Something dark. Something.
She titled the bottle up to her lips, and a small drip of alcohol fell from the corner of her mouth. Marco found himself staring at it, imagining leaning over and licking it off of her skin. But then she was grinning again, and he had to stop staring at her mouth. That mouth, he thought. That troubling mouth, oh god. He closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath, through his teeth, like a hiss.
With closed eyes, he felt her lean up next to him, so her breathing was up against his ear.
Her voice came out low and languid, rough and challenging. "Dare me."
Marco took a stumbling step backward, his pulse beating rapidly. He opened his eyes and found hers. There was that something back in her gaze. Something unnameable. Something dark and warm. Something hungry.
A shot of adrenaline flooded him, made him feel light-headed and sweaty. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the cool autumn air. Maybe it was the way his heart ached when he imagined his mother (a corpse, rotting.) He felt this momentum building inside of him. He wanted to replace this emptiness with something—with Rachel's mouth, or her hands, with the cocky way she smirked at him. He remembered that mouth (and his mother's mouth, wide and open, screaming as she fell). He remembered the cool bottle of champagne pressed up against Rachel's neck, and her lips, and the small wet impression her lips made against the glass. (And maybe more, maybe something about the way swallowing always reminded Marco of drowning.)
"So we're gonna play this game, are we?" he managed, trying to sound casual, but his voice was coarse and thick. It felt difficult to form words and push them from his lips.
"What game?" Rachel snapped.
"Truth or dare."
She laughed. It was the same reckless laugh she saved for battles, and he knew then she must be excited. Knowing this made his stomach tighten. He was excited too. "You don't want to play that game with me," Rachel mused, a devious quality in her smile.
"And why not?" Marco asked, raising one eyebrow. His heart was now hammering in his ears, a boiling kind of rhythm that made it hard for him to keep things in focus.
"Because you'll fucking lose," she said easily.
"Then let's play, Xena."
"You aren't afraid to lose?" she barked, baring her teeth.
"Oh I'm terrified," he replied, eyeing those teeth. Those troubling teeth. "But it's been a few days since we've gone running and screaming from some terror. So, you know. Life seems kind of dull."
"Hah! Some of us aren't afraid of little fight," she said.
"Alright then, Rachel. Truth or dare?" Marco bit out, suddenly filled with a rumbling urgency.
She gave him a knowing look. "Do you even need to ask?"
"Fine. Dare it is."
Marco surveyed his surroundings, running a hand along the neck of the champagne bottle still in his grasp. They were far away from the hotel patio now. Over the lush golf course he could see the sparkling of the ocean in the distance. Everything was gray and quiet. It wasn't even windy. He suddenly became more aware of the sound of his feet crunching into the gravel of the pathway, and the heaviness of his breathing. They were alone. Completely alone. He turned to look at her, and she was glaring at him impatiently.
"Well?" her voice rang out.
And the words were there in his mind before he even realized it.
Take off your dress.
It was a dark and unforgiving request, and it bubbled up from somewhere inside of Marco he couldn't identify. Something was there. It made him dizzy. It made him want to push her far enough. It made him want to indulge. He knew how addicting the thrill was to her. He knew how much she relied on her bravery, how saying, "no" to small challenges felt like defeat, how crushing defeat was to her self-worth. And she was there, glaring at him, unafraid, willing, excited. And here it was, in his mind, the one thing he wanted from her. Take off your dress.
That troubling dress.
He found himself talking. He didn't like that. He didn't like that his words were moving on without his mind's consent. He hadn't realized how drunk he was until that moment. "…You can steal a golf cart," he finished off.
Her eyes were flashing with approval of his request. In the next moment, her warm hand was clasped around his wrist as she pulled him forward. He stumbled along next to her, until they had broken into a gallop. God, he was drunk. He could hardly keep one foot in front of the other. But it didn't matter. The longing in his throat was mingling with laughter. His rotting insides felt far away. That ugly, dark obsession (a corpse), was gone.
There was just this challenge. This night.
And Rachel.
For better or worse.
Notes: Part two coming soon. There might be some inevitable smuttiness. I can't help myself.
A sneak peak:
He shifted around and saw her, blinking rapidly to clear the memories from his mind. She had turned, showing Marco her back, her hair gathered to one side of her neck.
He froze. The dress she was wearing met in a deep V between her shoulder blades. Her soft, smooth skin was illuminated from the light of the pool, and Marco had a sudden urge to press his mouth right up against the back of her neck. His insides were aching. His insides were aching, and Rachel was so nonchalant about it all, like it meant nothing. Like undressing her was something mundane and normal, like he wasn't dying inside. He knew they had seen each other strip off their clothes down to their skintight morphing outfits before, but this felt different. This felt like he was holding his breath, needing to see another square inch of her skin to breath again.