Chapter 8:

The day after his encounter with Finn, he and Paige approached Marcel, propositioning him for a game of "Go Fish." At first, he'd thought they'd been joking.

Now, he did appreciate that Finn had only been trying to help when he'd refused him, but that didn't make the shame he felt any easier to bear. And he didn't exactly appreciate Finn's condescending, old pro 'I've been there' attitude. Despite Finn's "loveable goofball" demeanour, Marcel didn't particularly like him. Underneath the goofball persona was a rapist, a monster and a definite ass. He could insist he was better, and so very sorry, but none of it changed what he'd done.

So Marcel really did not want to play cards with him.

"Do'ya have any three's?" Marcel asked Paige, staring glumly at his hand.

"No-ope." Paige chirped. He glared at her, and reached for the deck in the centre. This was Paige's fault. For some reason he just hadn't been able to say 'no' to her. For someone so tiny, she had possibly the biggest pair of eyes he'd ever seen, and she'd looked so goddamned hopeful, like there was nothing more in the world that she wanted, other then playing cards with him.

So they sat in a corner of the main room, playing a game that was going no where, on account of how Paige kept looking at their cards and cheating, causing Finn to reshuffle the deck every 5 minutes.

"Marcel-" Finn said, looking at his own hand. "Do you have any Ace's?"

Marcel swallowed a little, and looked down at his hand. He had two Ace's, actually. And two Jacks...a few Clubs. He shook his head. "No, go fish."

Finn reached into the pile of cards in the middle of them, and Marcel looked off to the other side of the room, where Michael was sitting and watching television.

"So...what about the guy by the TV?" Marcel asked, unable to stop himself from thinking back to what had happened between them the night before.

"Michael?" Finn asked. He nodded. "What about him?"

"He's not...gay, is he?" Marcel asked, trying not to let himself hope for a positive answer. Not that he liked him, exactly. He just thought he was nice, and really easy to talk to. And he liked to read, too. And his hair was nice- it was messy, but it looked soft...

Finn laughed. "He's spent the last 6 months calling me a faggot, so no, I don't think so."

Marcel tried not to let his disappointment show on his face. He shrugged, attempting to appear casual. "Never know...could be latent."

Finn furrowed his brow, looking confused.

"It means his secret gay-being powers have so far gone untapped." Paige explained.

"Exactly." Marcel said, shuffling his cards around a bit. He separated the Aces from the other cards, and put them up front. One was an Ace of Spades; the other, Hearts.

"And you intend to tap it?" Finn asked. Paige giggled.

Marcel shrugged again. "I don't know...he's cute. He's quiet. I like that." And there was what happened the day before...not much, just an arm around his shoulders and the reassurances that he would be alright but still...it felt like something.

"He doesn't smell like feet so much anymore." Paige said with a shrug. "And it's been a while since he's pinched me."

Marcel looked over at Michael, tuning out Finn and Paige. He didn't think now was the time to be making friends- or more-than friends, especially since he wasn't planning on staying long (if only that pit in his stomach would disappear- what might have been a seed of dou- no. There was nothing) Still, he found himself unable to stop looking over at him, through out the rest of their card game.

After dinner, Marcel wandered over to the TV area, and sat down on the arm of the couch. Michael turned, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, hey."

Marcel smiled awkwardly. "Hi..." He said quietly. He cleared his throat. "Um, whatcha watching?"

Michael shrugged. "Nothing, really. Nothing's on."

"Then why are you watching?"

He shrugged again. "Kills time."

Marcel nodded, and slid off the arm, and onto the couch. He put his feet up under him. There was a nervous tugging in his chest, and tried to tell himself not to say anything stupid. Or sexual. Michael was nice, and he was determined to have a nice conversation with him. "You could read, you know."

"I read at night, when I can't sleep. Which is a lot."

"You could read during the day and at night." Marcel suggested, raising his eyebrows.

Michel shook his head. "My attention spans not that great." He explained. "If I've been reading all day, I won't want to at night. And then I'll have nothing to do. I mean, you can't read all the time, right? You gotta have other interests."

Marcel paused. "Uh...no, not really. Not that I can think of." He said quietly. Michael raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "Well, it's just...before, I didn't spend a whole lot of time doing things I liked doing...I did things my friends wanted. Went shopping, went to parties, fooled around with guys, gossiped...more shopping..." Marcel sighed, remembering the useless hours he'd spend in shopping malls, trying to pretend he could tell the different between the 50 different pairs of jeans one of his friends would be trying on. "Reading was sort of the only thing I had for myself."

"That's kind of shitty of your friends, isn't it?"

Marcel shook his head again. "It wasn't their fault- I never told them I hated shopping and stuff. In fact, I pretended to love it. There's no way they could have known."

"Why?"

"I wanted to fit in." Marcel said simply. "I mean, I was kind of a freak, right? What kind of a queerfag didn't like clothes, or simpering over celebrity couples? I was just trying to act like what I'd been told someone like me should be- a cocksucking fairy." He shrugged. "Seemed simple enough at the time."

Michael turned his whole body to face him now, and took his hand in his. "Don't call yourself that- any of that. Those words are shit, alright. And you're better then that." Michael looked him in the eye. "You're a lot better then that."

"What makes you say that?" Marcel asked quietly. He glanced down, noting that Michael was still holding his hand. The nervous feeling in his chest grew worse, turning into a strange fluttering feeling that made him feel slightly nauseous. But he didn't take his hand away.

"I dunno," Michael said, furrowing his brow for a moment as though he really didn't understand his own words. He shrugged. "You're like the only person in here who's not an idiot. I like talking to you," He admitted. "Which is something 'cause I usually hate talking. At all."

The fluttering feeling in his chest seemed to float upwards to his head, leaving his chest oddly empty feeling. Marcel took his hand back, and looked away. He felt odd, and slightly surreal.

Michael cleared his throat and sat up straight.

Marcel was quiet for a few minutes, staring off at the wall across from them. "...I like poetry." He said eventually. Michael glanced at him. "I know that's not so different from reading, I mean, you have to read poetry...but I like poetry. And reality TV."

Michael snorted. "You like reality TV?"

He smiled a bit. "Yeah. It's horrible, and terribly fun to watch. And you can make fun of all the stupid people."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. "So you like reality TV because you can make fun of it?"

"...Isn't that why everyone does?"

"Maybe- actually, that makes a lot more sense then people actually liking it." He picked the remote back up, and flipped through the channels. "Here- Hoarders is on."

Marcel's eyes lit up. "I love Hoarders!" He said excitedly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd watched that show. Or any show. "They have so much stuff."

Michael smiled at him, shaking his head. "Yeah, I think that's sort of the point."

As everyone does eventually, Marcel quickly fell into a routine. Each day, he spent most of his time with Michael, sitting on the couch in front of the TV. Despite Michael's claim that he didn't like to talk much, they would spend all day talking. They talked about books they'd read, and either loved or hated, television shows they'd watched as children (it turned out they were both Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fans, and had both spent years longer then they should have devoted to the show "Beast Wars.") They talked about the subjects they'd loved in school (English and Art for Marcel, Lunchtime for Michael) and the ones they'd hated (Gym).

They had an hour long discussion about whether not vampires in the Ann Rice universe could get erections. Michael insisted they couldn't, which is why they never have sex. Marcel said they could, and they simply didn't have sex because none of them wanted to bottom. Bottoming was, after all, a pain in the ass.

They'd laughed for a lot longer then they should have over that joke.

When he wasn't with Michael, he was with Lina. As agreed, they didn't discuss their issues again. They simply rolled around on the floor, kissing heatedly while Lina stroked him off.

The rest of the day was divided by meals and trips to group therapy, and private therapy, both of which he spent entirely zoned out. He listened to what was being said to him, and gave vague answers, but he wasn't really there. He was somewhere else, watching what was happening with little interest, and wondering what Michael was watching on TV while he was in there.

For the most part, he was alright. It wasn't so bad here, he supposed. If he could just avoid talking about what happened, and thinking about it, he would be fine. He just needed to wait...wait it out.

What he was waiting for, he wasn't sure.

Night time was the worst. Night time was impossible. It took forever to fall asleep, and when he did it didn't last long. He had nightmares, awful nightmares reliving the first few months he'd been with them. Or his last day with them...when they'd left him. He tried to forget about that- their torture and those first few months- - had forgotten, during the day at least. He couldn't remember, wouldn't.

It wasn't exactly conscious, but in his effort to not remember the tortures he'd endured, he became determined to avoid any and all reminders. That meant Michael had to change the channel when any show or movie took place in a cabin. If any of the characters owned a dog, he changed the channel. Ropes or chains, he changed the channel.

Simply the sound of clattering cans was enough to send him into a fit, and the sight of them made him tense.

He didn't play cards with Finn and Paige again.


It had been a week since he'd entered the bin, and evidently his therapist, Pete, had come to the conclusion that he wasn't getting anywhere. In Marcel's opinion, it had taken him long enough.

Marcel stared off at the wall behind Pete's head, not really listening to what he was saying. Something about not dealing with his problems...dissociating...

"Marcel, look at me." Pete snapped.

The strength in his voice caught his attention, and Marcel cast his gaze over to his frustrated therapist. "For god's sake, I am trying to get through to you, and you're not listening to a thing I'm saying."

No-ope.

"Marcel please, you need to try. Separating yourself like this isn't healthy- you're already detached from the world as it is, just by being here. You cannot afford to let yourself become detached from your feelings, and those around you as well. You need to make a connection- I'd like that connection to be with me, but I'll accept if it isn't."

Slowly, Marcel lifted his eyes up and looked at him. "You want me to make connections?" He asked. Pete nodded, and Marcel narrowed his eyes. "I had connections." He seethed, his voice seeped in venom. "I was connected with them more then I'd been connected to anyone ever! And you took me from them!"

Pete shook his head. "Those weren't connections, those were coping mechanisms for dealing with trauma. They were forced and artificial. I want you to have something real."

Marcel ground his teeth. "What makes you think I'm not connecting?"

"You don't speak up in group therapy, you don't talk to me- your father has been to see you everyday this week and you haven't let him in. Maybe if I knew a bit more about your relationship with him, I could understand why, but you haven't told me anything."

And I'm not going to.

"I don't want to talk about my father."

"You don't want to talk about anything."

"Oh so you've realized that? Why are we still here then?"

"Because you need to be."

Marcel stood up abruptly, not willing to listen anymore. Pete followed his lead. "We're not done here, you can't leave."

Marcel looked him in the eye, and anyone without years of experience dealing with patients like Marcel would have flinched from the cruelty in his gaze. "Then force me to stay, Pete. Make me."

Pete sighed, and Marcel tried not to smirk. "You can go."

Marcel left without saying anything else, and stalked back to the television area. He threw himself down on the couch, and crossed his arms over his chest. Michael changed the channel.

"So therapy went well then?" Michael asked, looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Fucking cocksucking son-of-a-bitch, I hate him." Marcel spat.

Michael clicked his tongue. "Bad words. Angry words."

"What's your point?"

Michael shrugged. "He must be getting to you. S'good."

Marcel grabbed his shoulder and yanked Michael towards him. "He's not getting to me. There's nothing to get to. I am fine. Got it?"

Michael glanced at the hand on his shoulder, and then back at Marcel. "I can see that."

Marcel let go of him, and Michael leaned back on the couch. "You finished Fight Club yet?"

Marcel gave a disgruntled snort. "I've been sort of distracted."

Michael nodded. "How are you liking it though?"

Marcel shrugged, shifting around on the couch. He didn't want to talk about books right now, he wanted to rant more about stupid fucking Pete and his stupid fucking glasses, and how he was obviously out to get him. "I don't know- I guess I just don't understand why everything is about some girl. A kind of annoying girl, too." He mumbled.

Michael turned to face Marcel, becoming instantly more animated as he spoke. "But it's not because she's a girl, it's because she's someone who gets him. Someone who understands him...someone who's like him."

Marcel raised an eyebrow. "Really, because I sort of got the idea that he hated her."

Michael shook his head. "Nah, he's just never met anyone like her- someone who he could actually connect with, for real. That's what freaks him out about her, and it's why he's always pushing her away. Because it's what he wants, more then anything- that's why he goes to all those group meetings, pretending to have cancer and stuff. He wants someone to talk to, someone to hold him and love him, even if it's a lie. But even though he wants it, when he finds it in Marla, it freaks him out. So he pushes her away, disengages and pretends he hates her. So that's where Tyler comes in. He craves companionship, but he can't let himself have it with Marla."

"So everything that happens is just 'cause this guy won't let himself connect with someone he likes?"

Michael nodded. "Connection is important. Connection to others is how we learn to regulate emotions and urges in ourselves."

Marcel raised an eyebrow, and Michael smiled. "At this point I'm just repeating the stuff they've been telling me. Still true though."

He nodded, and rubbed his temples. He didn't want to talk about connecting anymore. He was sick of it. "Extreme Couponing is on channel 9 now." He said quietly.

Michael changed the channel.

When it was lights out that night, Michael walked him to his room, despite it being far past his own. They stood there awkwardly for a few moments, hands shoved in their pockets, unsure what to say.

"I- um, I'm sorry about grabbing you before." Marcel said quietly. "I shouldn't have."

Michael shrugged. "So'k- I forgive you."

He gave him a tiny smile, relieved that he'd been forgiven so easily. "Thanks."

"No problem," Michael said, offering a returning smile. He put his hand on Marcel's shoulder. "You know if you ever wanna talk about things, about whatever happened or how you feel or anything, you can come to me right? We can talk?"

Marcel nodded. "I know."

"Good," Michael said, the corner of his mouth twitching again. The looked at each other for a moment, and Marcel thought he saw Michael's eyes drift down over his lips.

Their eyes locked again, and Marcel knew what was about to happen. His chest, stomach and head all fluttered together in nervous anticipation. He couldn't believe how badly he wanted this- wanted Michael to lean down and press his lips against him, to kiss away all the terror and heartache in his gut.

Michael hesitated for a moment, unsure of himself. He moved his hand up from Marcel's shoulder to his cheek, his touch apprehensive and careful, as though he was worried Marcel would break if he pressed too hard. Slowly, Marcel inclined his head a bit, in a small nod. "It's alright, go ahead." He whispered.

Marcel swallowed thickly, and leaned in. Marcel pushed up, standing on the tip of his toes to meet Michael halfway. Their lips met, and Marcel was surprised at how soft the kiss was- gentle, unassuming. He had been expecting something much rougher from Michael.

For just a moment, Marcel let himself forget about his past. There was no Jack, no Howie...no Ace. None of them had ever existed. No whips or chains...no pain. He wasn't a victim, he wasn't some emotionally damaged patient in a mental asylum. He was just a teenage boy, standing in a hallway, kissing the guy he liked. The only guy that mattered.

Michael's lips tasted like froot loops.

Michael pulled alway slowly, and swallowed again. "Holy shit..."

"Hey, what are you two doing up?" A voice behind them asked. They both jumped, and turned around. Robbie raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing, we're not- we're doing nothing." Michael said quickly. His cheeks were dark red, and he looked embarrassed. Marcel still felt a little dazed.

Robbie raised his eyebrows further. "Uh-huh." He said. "It's light out now so you know...bed time."

They nodded.

His hands firmly back in his pockets, Michael turned to Marcel. "Uh, so you know...night." He said quickly, and then rushed off down the hall.

Marcel stared after him for a moment, and slowly brought his hands up to his lips, which felt a little tingly. "Yeah...night." He whispered.


Most mornings, when he woke up, Marcel lay in his bed for an hour before getting up and going to breakfast. That was how long it usually took for him to stop shaking, and force away the memory of whatever awful degradation he'd been forced to relive in his sleep.

This morning he was up, dressed and out with in 10 minutes of waking up. His head buzzed with questions and worries, and awful predictions as he got ready- What if Michael regretted what had happened? What if he got angry at him? What if he yelled? Finn had been so sure he was straight...what if he wanted to pretend it hadn't happened? Would things go back to how they were before? His stomach sank at the thought of denying that kiss, the one that he could still feel against his lips even now...but he could live with that, he supposed. If the alternative was Michael not speaking to him at all, he would live with it, gladly.

He walked out into the main room, and his stopped in surprise when he saw the television area empty. Feeling slightly thrown off, he walked on, into the dining room.

Michael was the only one in there, and he went to take a seat next to him. Michael's head was down, hunched slightly over his bowl of Rice Krispies. Marcel wrinkled his nose- he'd always resented that cereal a bit, due to his inability to pronounce the word "Krispies."

Michael looked over when Marcel moved out the chair next to him, and his eyes lit up. "Oh, Marcel! Hi- hey, I mean. I mean, good morning."

Marcel smiled, his worries quieting a bit. "Hi."

"I didn't expect you- I mean, you're usually not up until later." Michael rambled.

Marcel shrugged. "Well, I sort of had something that needed to be dealt with right away so..."

"What's that?" Michael asked, honestly concerned. Marcel raised his eyebrows, and Michael's eyes widened as he realized."Oh, yeah," He said, laughing nervously. "That."

Marcel laughed too. "Yeah, that."

Michael nodded, and cringed apologetically. "I'm not usually like this, I swear."

Marcel put his hand on Michael's, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "I know."

Michael nodded again, and seemed to calm down a bit. "So...do you want to talk about it?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah, that'd be good." He said. "I mean, we were kind of cut off yesterday so I never really got to see how you felt about it..."

"Whaddya mean?"

He shrugged. "Well, I mean I'm going to guess that was the first time you ever kissed a boy so-"

Michael looked a way, his cheeks turning dark and ruddy, just as they had the night before. "Um, that was the first time I kissed anybody, actually..."

Marcel's eyes grew wide. "Oh my god, seriously?" He asked. "That was your first kiss?"

Michael nodded his head, and seemed to force himself to make eye-contact. Marcel sucked his breath in a bit- he'd never noticed how blue Michael's eyes were before. They were dark, practically navy- but wide and clear. They were beautiful.

"Yeah," Michael said quietly. "You were my first kiss."

There was no warning. No build up- suddenly, the panic was back. Sudden and swift, just like before. Marcel stood up, knocking his chair over. "I- I can't do this." He stammered, backing away from the table. It was too much- too intense- what was this? What did he want? His first kiss- no. No, no.

"No, please, Marcel wait-" Michael said, standing up as well.

Marcel shook his head, feeling as though he was about to pass out. "No, no I can't." He said, tears forming in his eyes. The dining room, which had felt so pleasantly calm and cool only moments ago, was stifling hot now. The thick air pressed against his lungs, choking him. He turned to run, but Michael reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Just tell me what I said-" He pleaded.

Marcel shook his head, his skin burning where Michael held him. "Please let me go, please." He sobbed. Michael released him in an instant, and he darted out of the room.

He stumbled through the main room, into the boys dorms, not paying attention to where he went. It wasn't until he found himself once again outside Finn's door that he made himself stop. He fell backwards, unable to keep himself up anymore. What am I doing here? Why Finn? He didn't want Finn, he wanted-

"Michael," He whispered, seeing a blurry figure crouch in front of him.

"Had to make sure you were ok." Michael muttered, pulling him to his feet. "Even if you're pissed at me."

Marcel shook his head. "Not ok- not ok at all."

"Hey," Michael said, putting his hand gently on his cheek. His hands felt cool, comforting against his burning skin. "You know what's happening and you can handle it, right?"

Marcel nodded, trying to swallow but his throat was dry. "A- it's a panic attack." He said. Michael nodded. "It won't kill me, even though it feels like it will."

Michael smiled a bit. "Exactly. Come on, I'll take you to your room and you can lie down-"

Marcel whimpered. "I don't want to go to my room." He said, looking into Michael's navy eyes. It might have been the delirium, but for a moment he was sure they weren't navy at all, but indigo. "Please don't make me."

Michael furrowed his brow. "Where do you want to go then?" Michael's eyes clouded, looking past him to the door of Finn's room.

"Your room, with you. Like before." He begged.

Michael looked at him again and nodded, and took him to his room. They sat down on Michael bed, and Michael put his arm around him. Marcel let his eyes close, letting himself lean against the boy next to him.

"Take some deep breathes," Michael suggested softly. "Try and relax- tell yourself you're safe."

Marcel breathed deeply, and his nostrils filled with the scent of the fabric softener clinging to Michael's red flannel shirt. It eased into his lungs, opening them up and letting air in again. He sighed. "I'm safe." He whispered.

Michael smiled, brushing his fingers along the side of Marcel's face again. "Good."

Marcel breathed in again, not realizing as he pushed back against Michael, forcing him to lie down on his bed and lying on top of him. Michael just smiled more, letting Marcel fall asleep on him. "Good." He repeated.


His therapy sessions with Pete were getting harder to ignore.

"Marcel, don't you want to get better?" He asked.

There's nothing wrong with me. Nothing that getting out of here won't cure.

"Do you want to be dealing with your trauma for the rest of your life?" He continued. "Because if you keep avoiding dealing with it, that's what will happen. You put it off now, and it will come back and smack you down even harder in the future. Is that what you want?"

Why yes actually, that's exactly what I want.

Pete sighed, and took off his glasses, cleaning them on his blue button down shirt. He put them back on, and looked at Marcel. "Marcel, all I want is for you to talk to me. Tell me how you're feeling, what you're thinking. Anything. Anything you want to talk about- how do you like the food here? I get a lot of complaints about the oatmeal." He smiled.

Marcel shrugged. "Rice Kripsies are good."

Pete raised his eyebrows. "Rice Kripsies?"

Marcel glowered. Dumb stupid confusing word. "I can't say Krispies unless I think about it. Leave it alone."

Pete nodded. "Alright, I won't mention it again. But that's good- I'm glad you like the cereal. Is there anything else you like?"

Marcel shrugged again. "TV's alright."

"What do you watch?" He prodded.

"Reality TV, mostly. Sometimes movies are on...sometimes Paige puts on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and that's kind of good..."

Pete grinned. "Ah, Paige." He said fondly. "Not my patient, but I think I owe a great deal to her and how she's helped Finn."

Marcel made a face, and Pete caught it. "You don't like Paige?" He questioned.

"I don't like Finn." He spat. Pete nodded, not asking why. "He acts like he knows everything, like he's been all around the fucking block and it's fucking bullshit. Fucking prick..."

"That's an awful lot of dislike for someone you've just met."

Marcel eyed his therapist. "So what? I'm not allowed to hate a guy who raped his fucking brother?" He snorted. "Sorry but if that doesn't justify irrational hate then I don't know what would."

"So you think you're hatred of Finn is irrational?"

"What?"

"You said 'sorry but if that doesn't justify irrational hate then I don't know what would.'"

Marcel ground his teeth. "I didn't mean that."

Pete raised his eyebrows. "Marcel, do you know what a Freudian slip is?"

"Yeah, when your science teacher asks you for the answer to question 14 and you say 'orgasms' instead of 'organisms. Can I go now? Are we done?"

Pete sighed. "No, we're not done...but you can go. I appreciate you talking to me, even for a little." He smiled.

Marcel shot up without another word, and went to go find Michael.

Michael's room was a different colour then his- mint green instead of powder blue. He decided he liked the green better.

He yawned, lying back against Michael's chest, and considered trying to go to sleep. Michael was a hell of a lot more comfortable then his stupid mattress. And he had the strange idea that sleeping with Michael's arms around him would keep him safe from nightmares.

"I'm sorry about before," Marcel said, tilting his head up to look at him again. Michael raised his eyebrows questioningly. "I mean, I'm sorry for freaking out like that. I didn't mean to I just..." He gave an apologetic smile. "I think I was Fight Club-ing you."

Michael nodded, seeming to get what he meant. He'd been pushing him away, running away from connection. "Am I Tyler or Marla?"

Marcel smiled a little. "Marla- but less annoying."

"Hey," Michael said, sounding wounded. "I like Marla, I think she's a great character."

Marcel frowned again. "Are you gay?" He asked.

"What?"

Marcel sat up, moving off Michael's lap. "I'm serious, are you gay?"

Michael sat up as well, looking confused. "I- um, I don't know."

"How can you not know that?" Marcel demanded. A voice in his head told him to stay calm- there were only so many freak outs Michael was going to be able to handle.

Michael shrugged, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't know, I mean I'm still getting used to not hating everyone. You're the first person I've ever liked."

"Liking people and being attracted to people are totally separate." Marcel pointed out. "You can hate someone and still want to fuck them."

Michael blushed again. "Well- well I never did before." Marcel raised an eyebrow. "Seriously, I spent most of my time wanting to-" He looked away.

"Wanting to what?" He pressed.

Michael shook his head. "Nah, never mind. I- you won't like it."

Marcel rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever." He surveyed him suspiciously. "There's really no one else you've ever been attracted to?"

Michael moved his shoulders up and down in a half-hearted shrug. "No one comes to mind."

Marcel chewed his lip. He tried to sort out how to deal with that. "Well, alright then." He said, closing his eyes and letting his head drop back against Michael's chest. Michael looked surprised. "I'm gonna take a nap..." He said, yawning and making himself comfortable.

"Really?" Michael asked, looking skeptical. "Just like that?"

Marcel shrugged. "Real tired."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Not that. I mean just like that, you're not angry anymore?"

"I wasn't angry exactly- just confused." He mumbled, and snuggled against Michael's chest, feeling himself drop off. "So, whatever. I might not understand it, but I'll accept it. Besides, you like me now, right? And I like you so...so that's what matters."

Michael nodded. "Yeah."

Marcel yawned again. "Night Michael..."

Michael smiled. "Night."