Steven ran his hands over his face. His movements were slow, deliberate. Nails slightly raking along his skin, he pushed and pulled. Like an artist with some clay, Steven attempted to mold the features on his face.
Fingertips to his eyebrows, he pushed them into a furrow. He held the position and slowly moved his hands away. The furrow remained, and Steven pushed his hair out of his face. His mouth didn't match.
Gently touching his lips, he pulled them into a thin line. He let one hand linger as he touched the skin right above his mouth. With a finger, he pushed up the corner of his lip, his nose instinctively wrinkling. Too much? Steven loosened the muscle, but the form was still there, a ghost of a scowl. Subtle, yes.
He rested his hands on the sides of his face and dragged them down, feeling the ridges of his cheekbones and almost willing himself to be more firm, just a bit rougher around the edges. How could they hold themselves so differently? Marc was, and so was—
Steven lowered his hands and leaned closer to the mirror. He kept his face as still as he could while he surveyed his work. His eyes. They weren't quite right either. There had been a hardness to them, yes, but there was something behind that. Steven had seen Marc give him that look. If he had to describe it, he would say it was yearning.
For Steven, though, the same emotion drew forth different shapes. His eyes would be downturned, lips into a quiver of a smile. His tongue would be pressed against his teeth, begging to lurch forward and say something.
While Marc held that hardened look, his face was also different. There would have been a curl to his nose, a grimace across his lips, as if he was disgusted with himself to be feeling such a thing.
But this face Steven had shaped—
No, he couldn't emulate it.
"Morning," Marc said. "What are you doing?"
Steven rubbed at an eye, scrunching his nose. "Got a bloody eyelash, I think." He blinked a couple times. "Must have got it." Steven smacked his lips and set his hands in his lap. He watched Marc for a moment, catching the corners of his mouth twitching. Marc glanced away, lifting a hand to hide his smile. Steven touched the edge of his t-shirt, wanting the fluttering in his stomach to settle. "Morning," he added in a whisper.
His hand raised, and Steven watched as it pressed against his chest before sliding up to his neck. A light squeeze, Marc then cradled Steven's face, swiping his thumb along his lower lip. "How'd you sleep?" he asked, voice low.
Steven roughly swallowed and closed his eyes, fully concentrating on the pressure of the hand along his jaw, the fingers on his mouth. "Quite good, yeah," Steven mumbled. "You?"
Marc hummed. He brushed the curls from Steven's forehead. "Same. Quiet."
"Good, good."
He returned to holding Steven's neck, pressing the pad of his thumb to the underside of his jaw. Steven looked in the mirror at Marc, but he wasn't looking at Steven, not exactly. He studied Steven's mouth, the hand that he pressed to his throat. His eyes were narrowed, teeth slightly clenched. Marc lowered his hand and tucked his fingers in the collar of Steven's shirt. "You got that school tour group today, right?"
Steven sat there, mouth agape and trying his hardest to slow his pounding heart. He carefully shifted, dropping his other hand to clutch his thigh. "Mhm, yeah, I think so. It was… it was on the schedule yesterday." He cleared his throat. "Last I checked."
"What time?"
"Nine."
"Okay. Go in the shower. I want to get you off."
Steven tossed aside the bed covers and twisted to roll out of bed. "Yes, yes, yes—" he stopped, stumbling as he stood. He frowned at the ankle restraint and set his foot on the bed, tearing away the cuff.
Marc laughed. "Careful there. Don't want you falling and breaking your nose."
"Hush, shut it." Steven wiggled his foot free and let out a triumphant "aha!" He marched into the bathroom, already peeling off his clothes.
In less than two minutes, Steven was underneath the warm shower spray, with Marc touching every inch of his face, chest, thighs. By the time Marc gripped his cock, Steven was already leaking, already whimpering.
"Please, Marc, please."
"Look at me, Steven. You're so—fuck."
Steven tilted his head and glanced at the mirror on the wall. He imagined he looked properly debauched, and Marc was nearly a perfect reflection. Cheeks flushed, lips pink from wetting and biting them, Marc squeezed his eyes closed. Steven rested a hand on the wall, propping himself up. "Finish your sentence," he breathed.
Marc twisted his wrist, quickening his pace. Steven's breath hitched. "Beautiful," he said. "Steven, you're beautiful. I wish I could fucking kiss you."
Steven leaned his forehead against the tile and panted, groaned, and squirmed. With the image of Marc's lips collecting his moans like sustenance, he came.
Several minutes passed before Steven managed to whisper "Me too." He fought to straighten up, rolling his shoulders. He stuck his face underneath the water and shook his hands clean.
Threading his fingers through his hair, Steven washed his face, tracing along his cheekbones. He shivered and bowed his head, covering his eyes. Water traveled down his shoulders, his back, and he imagined hands pressing along the curve of his spine, gentle, caring. Firm.
He sputtered, and Marc walked him away from the shower spray. "Hey, hey," he said, a smile in his voice. "I know we can get a little brain fuzzy after coming, but don't drown yourself."
Steven smirked, smoothing his hair back. He looked at Marc and quirked a brow. "You finish the job, then."
"I thought I did."
"Marc."
Laughing, Marc slid into control. He passed a look at Steven in the mirror. "I'm not leading your tour today, though. Don't get any ideas."
Steven stuck out his tongue, and Marc reached for the shampoo.
Steven couldn't help but be embarrassed at how often he glanced into mirrors now.
It wasn't like he was deliberately searching for him. Other-Us. It was more like… once something was made aware of, it was difficult to become unaware of it. He was keen on picking up differences in his reflection, cataloging how he knew it was Marc staring back at him or just himself.
Marc had said he was content in living their lives as they had been, not intent on learning more about the other face they've seen. Steven wasn't quite sure if he wanted to let things lie. He wanted to learn more. He wanted to help. And, maybe, there was a small part of him that wanted to turn the tables, to protect Marc and shoulder this burden for once.
Who was he kidding—that was a large part of it.
Even if he happened to learn more about Other-Us, he wouldn't hide anything from Marc. He just needed to gather all the necessary data and be more informed before presenting it.
So, that was what he had been attempting to do these past several months—sneaking glances in mirrors, combing for bruises and scratches on his body, and catching any slip-ups in their nightly routine. Thus far, he had gathered the following: a couple annoyed stares in his work mirror and puddles on the street; two bruises, one on his shoulder and another on his hip, that disappeared as quickly as he saw them; another cut made while shaving that healed before he could audibly wince; four nights where the tape had not been placed on the door; and two mornings when he woke up with no cuff around his ankle.
The forgetfulness in their routine could just be that—forgetfulness. Easily excused. And, sure, those annoyed looks could have been from Marc, but they had been really good lately. Little to no arguments or tifts. But the injuries, no, there was no explaining those away.
Steven was reluctant to compare notes with Marc, if he even had taken notice of those same things. He hadn't shared any worries with Steven, and he didn't appear preoccupied with anything. He wasn't even suspicious of the more frequent looks Steven had given to mirrors. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He seemed to relish in it.
Each time he met Marc's eyes, he gave Steven the most endearing expression. Brows slightly raising, a small smile growing on his face, and his shoulders lowering as he released a soft breath.
Like now, in the middle of Steven's gift shop shift, from the circular mirror by the register, Marc gazed at Steven with careful eyes and half-trembling lips. His arms folded over his chest, he slowly dropped them and tipped his head to the side. Steven felt his cheeks warm at the overt display of affection and ducked his head to absently count the change in the register. His stomach twisted, eagerness, want, trying to climb up his throat. "Marc," he mumbled.
"Yeah, baby?"
"I know no one else can see you…"
Marc loosely shrugged and raised a hand to rub his face, as if he could erase his expression. "I was thinking about dinner."
Steven snorted, snapping the drawer shut.
"I was! It's vegan food truck night. I was trying to remember if there was anything I hadn't tried yet."
"Oh, so you look all lovey-dovey for vegan food now? Have I officially succeeded in converting you?"
"Hey, not so fast. I will always love a steak for dinner now and again."
Steven sighed, shaking his head and tossing a playful eye roll in Marc's direction. Marc's smile widened behind his fist.
"Just keep that face to yourself until I'm off work, yeah?" Steven said, tucking back an errant curl.
"My face? You got a problem with my face?"
Not dignifying that tease with a verbal response, Steven simply shot him another exasperated look. He listened to Marc's single "ha!" before he broke into a cascade of laughter. Steven left to straighten the shelves, willing for the time to pass faster.
The scarab plushes were still a big seller, and he lingered on one, momentarily considering snatching it for himself. Steven frowned and squeezed a leg. He glanced over to the other shelves, furrowing his brow as he stared at the stationery. Notepads, pens, and notebooks were scattered, as if someone had rifled through them while browsing.
Steven crouched and collected the pens. He tapped them against his palm and dropped them into the container. Doing the same for the notebooks, he stacked them next to the pens, making neat rows. He paused, dragging his fingers down the edge of the notepads, to the shelf.
Should he be taking notes? Is that something he should actually be doing? He had just been cataloging in his head, trusting that his memory would hold up. For someone who once believed he had a sleeping disorder and woke up somewhere unfamiliar absolutely oblivious more times than he could count, that was a funny thought.
A paper record might not be preferable. Marc might go looking. Marc might find it and demand to know why Steven was searching for Other-Us.
But he wasn't searching for him. He only wanted to learn more. Be prepared. If Marc was doing this, though, then he'd think it'd be a great idea. Mercenary and all, this was probably right in his wheelhouse. Investigating and staking people out, the whole thing.
He could find a hiding place. Marc had hidden things in the flat before. Steven could do that. It'd have to be when Marc was out, somewhere in their headspace, when he wasn't snooping.
Well, now, snooping was not the right word. Marc didn't snoop on him. Snooping suggested his presence was unwelcome, and Marc was never unwelcome. Steven craved his presence. Wanted it in more ways than one.
A digital record, then. Perhaps a protected note or document or file on his phone. That might not be hard to figure out, right?
Uneasiness, guilt, shame settled like a hard rock in his stomach. He swallowed, fighting back a pang of nausea.
"Steven?"
"Bleh."
"Hey."
Steven blinked and raised his head. He widened his eyes and looked around. No longer at work, he was outside, it was evening, and he stood on a street corner with a paper bag of food in his hand. Steven grimaced and readjusted his grip on the food. He absently patted the bag and looked to the side, spotting Marc in a storefront window. "Hello?" he tried, wincing at the weakness in his tone.
Marc carefully watched him, his hands on his waist. He frowned, a slight pain in his eyes, in the furrow of his brow. "What's up? You look distracted."
"I don't…"
"You've been distracted since work. You walked us down here, but I had to order." Marc cracked a smile. "Had to do my best impression."
Steven smiled, too, the nausea and heaviness dissipating. "Yeah?"
"Hello, yes, I'd like a number free, cheers."
"A number fr—oh, fuck you." Steven grinned wider and started to walk. "I'm going home."
"I'll meet you there."
As they walked, Steven stared at the passing reflections more often than not. He only looked away if he needed to move around another person or cross the street. He and Marc stole glances like they were lovesick adolescents, biting back smiles and wiping away blushing cheeks.
He turned the corner, nearly home, and looked at the windows of the neighboring flats. Marc had lost his smile, lips pinched in an attempt to smother it, and he crossed his arms over his chest. One of his brows raised, a touch playful, a touch curious. He smirked at Steven, and with the way his lips pulled at his face, his nose wrinkled.
Oh, this wasn't Marc.
Steven slowed his pace, staring, his own lips parting. The more he stared, the more Steven realized how this wasn't, couldn't be, Marc. It wasn't just the way his features mapped onto his face, it was the way he carried himself.
Marc was confident. His shoulders were often pulled back, standing straight, chin tipped up. He sauntered. Charisma, easygoingness, seeped from his pores. It was effortless. Steven was practically the opposite.
If Marc was one point on that spectrum, Steven on the other end, this man might have landed somewhere in the middle. As he walked, his shoulders were hunched, almost holding himself close. Steven did that. In fact, he was doing it now, holding their bag of food to his chest like it was a bloody pillow. But this was different. It wasn't timidness that motivated him. It appeared to be caution, as his eyes darted between Steven and their surroundings.
He still sauntered. He and Marc had that in common.
Steven roughly swallowed and found himself diverting from his path, stepping closer to the window. The reflection smiled a little wider, now lifting both of his eyebrows, even more curiosity painting his face. Steven tightly pressed his lips together, the skin on the back of his neck prickling.
"Ah," he breathed.
Steven widened his eyes and stumbled back, twisting away toward the flat. He held his breath and half-hurriedly, half-casually, shouldered his way through the front door.
His voice was deep, a bit airy, and it sent shivers right down Steven's spine.
Steven neglected to stare into any more reflective surfaces until he was back in their flat. He dumped his bag onto the floor and set the food on the kitchen counter. Standing there for a moment, he rested his hands on the counter and attempted to steady his breathing.
Ah. Ah. Ah.
Steven closed his eyes.
"Hey, hey, Stevie. Look at me."
He squeezed his eyes closed even tighter, now holding his breath and trying to swallow his pounding heart that threatened to climb out of his mouth. Or vomit. It was probably vomit.
"Steven, baby, hey, come on."
Steven parted his lips and breathed out, raspy, rough. He grimaced. His knuckles hurt from how hard he clenched his fists.
"Please."
Sucking in another breath, Steven raised his head and glanced around to find the closest reflective surface. It was the toaster, stowed away on his left, and he reached over to grab it. Dragging it closer, he stared down at Marc. "Hiya."
"I think I lost you there for a sec," he said, studying him. Steven wanted to laugh, make a face, and spit out a you think? but he couldn't muster it. At his non-reaction, the furrow in Marc's brow deepened and he seemed to lean in. "You saw him."
It wasn't posed as a question. Marc knew. Of course he knew. What else could have caused Steven to get all spooked?
Khonshu, for one, but they weren't currently on speaking terms.
Steven wet his lips and rubbed a thumb against the corner of the toaster. "Y-Yeah."
"Shit. What'd he do? Did he say anything? Goddamn it, I thought I had—"
"—He didn't do anything nefarious," Steven interrupted, shutting his eyes and waving a hand. He couldn't listen to Marc's self-blame, any of the shoulds and musts he put on himself. Opening his eyes, he looked back at Marc and shook his head at the skeptical stare he received. "Honest. He was just… walking along and watching. Smiling. You know, like we were doing?"
Marc huffed. "Like we were doing? You got something—"
"—No, no. You bloody plonker. Not exactly like us." Steven gripped both sides of the toaster and lifted it to be eye-level. "Yeah?"
Marc narrowed his eyes, watching for a moment, before nodding. "Okay, yeah." He rubbed his nose, sniffing. "He say anything, though?"
Steven chewed on the inside of his cheek and tipped his head from side to side. "Ah?"
"Ah?"
"Well, it was more like… ah." Steven frowned, scrunching his face. "I can't do it. He didn't sound like either of us." He paused, shrugging, trying to find the right words. "It was a bit rugged but also breathy?"
"Rugged."
"You know, like, deep. Had a hint of something."
"Mhm."
"Maybe an accent?"
"Okay."
"As soon as I heard it, I bolted back here. Scared the shit out of me." Steven readjusted his grip on the toaster and looked at Marc. He didn't meet Steven's eyes, his head tilted and lips pressed into a thin line. The way he shifted, Steven might have thought he was uncomfortable. With his commentary, Steven might have thought—no, he knew—Marc was a touch jealous. The accusation was on the tip of Steven's tongue, but he held it in. What good would that do?
Steven cleared his throat and carefully set the toaster back down. "You know what someone who's been scared shitless might want? Reassurance."
At that, Marc snapped his head back to look at him. His stony expression quickly melted and was replaced with a kinder, softer one. "Oh, Steven, yeah, of course. Of course."
His right hand raised and cradled the left side of his face. Steven's eyes slid closed as Marc ran his thumb along his skin, the curve of his cheek. "I think I'd be terrified outta my mind, too," he said, whispering, and cracked a smile. "You're okay. You're safe here, right now." His fingers scratched behind Steven's ear, and Steven wished he could have leaned forward to rest his forehead against Marc's shoulder.
"Yeah," he mumbled.
"Like you said," Marc continued, "he wasn't doing anything… weird. Just watching. Like always."
Steven lifted his other hand and rubbed at his eyes. "Yeah," he repeated, shaking his shoulders and taking control of both of his hands. He looked at Marc and sighed. He attempted a smile. It wasn't a very good one.
"I haven't seen him," Marc said. "In a while, not since." He stopped, half-shrugged, and tossed a hand to the side. "You know."
"He's trying to be careful," Steven said, looking at the counter. "Right? I suppose I'm an easy target. No, not target. You know what I mean." He chewed on his thumbnail. Was it because he was searching for him (he wasn't)? Just inviting the opportunity for him to push Marc aside and show himself?
Marc frowned. "I think I've felt him, though. Like, like you're being watched? It's usually you I see when I check, but sometimes it's just me. And I know it wasn't always just me."
"Anything else?" Steven whispered. "Any, any…" he trailed off. Bruises, cuts, scrapes, aching muscles. His question didn't need to be asked in full. Marc knew. Steven bit off a corner of his nail, and he met Marc's hesitant stare.
Marc didn't take the bait. He shook his head.
"Right," Steven said. "Right."
Marc sharply breathed in and clapped, jolting him and Steven. "Come on, buddy, food's getting cold." He smiled at Steven. It didn't quite reach his eyes.
Steven smiled back and knew his didn't either. He grabbed the paper bag and went to sit on the couch.
The days were getting chilly, the nights even more so. Marc's usual audience at the park was starting to thin out.
"Got a little variety today," he said, flashing a look at the two ducks in front of him. "Nothing you haven't already had, though." He opened the plastic bag and shook the contents.
One of the ducks quacked and shuffled closer. Marc grinned and placed a piece of watermelon in both of his hands. He held them out for each duck to take. They gently did so.
He stuck his hand back into the bag and watched the ducks as they chomped on the fruit. The one on his left perked up its head when it finished, already looking expectantly. Marc passed over a strawberry and quickly retrieved a grape to give to the other duck. "Easy, easy," he muttered. "They're eager today, huh, Steven?"
Marc slowly frowned and raised a hand to adjust the headphone in his ear. He glanced at the few people walking through the park and crossed his ankles. A duck quacked at him. Marc gave another watermelon.
He didn't think Steven should be around all the time. Not even for duck feeding. That didn't mean Marc couldn't wish for it.
Since the other night, Marc was having a difficult time shaking Steven's scared expression from his mind. He hated seeing Steven vulnerable and not being able to do anything to stop it. All he could do was witness the aftermath and comfort, take care of, Steven. He had been good at that.
Until Steven had started seeing him more.
Truth be told, Marc didn't know how often Steven had been seeing him. He had just spoken of that time on the way home. Would he have told Marc if he'd seen him earlier?
Yeah. Yeah, he would. He'd have to. Steven hated hiding things. He wouldn't be able to keep it up.
A part of Marc—a part that he disliked—was curious about seeing Other-Us again. He had emphatically told Steven he wasn't interested in pursuing that lead any further. He just wanted to live his life with Steven. But the way he made Steven react, cheeks flushed, eyes wide, pupils blown, Marc needed to see him again.
It was fear, Marc repeatedly told himself. Steven was scared. He was being toyed with, intimidated. That was all.
A duck nipped at Marc's jeans. He frowned and waved it away. "Not with that attitude," he chastised. When the duck stepped back and softly quacked, Marc handed it a strawberry. Carefully, the duck took it and waddled away. The other duck remained, ruffling its wings.
Marc was probably being toyed with, too. That was the reason why he hadn't seen him as often as Steven had. He liked leaving Marc in the dark, only giving him small clues he had taken control of the body: bruises decorating his knuckles and scuffed palms that vanished as he washed his hands; a nasty cut across the bridge of his nose he had seen in the middle of the night that disappeared when he scrambled to the mirror to get a better look; three nights where the door was without tape; five mornings when he woke with no ankle restraint; and one morning where there was a firmly placed footprint in the sand.
Marc closed his eyes and slowly breathed in. His chest hurt. He was doing it again, had been doing it.
Not being fair to Steven.
"Oh, stop torturing the poor thing. You practically have it begging," said Steven.
Marc opened his eyes and looked down. His remaining duck friend had stepped closer, watching him with a tilted head. Marc wet his lips and peered into the bag. "We've still got some watermelon and grapes. What do you think?"
"Grapes. Give 'em two."
"One at a time," Marc said, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. He held out one grape in his hand. The duck eagerly grabbed it, and Steven laughed. Marc briefly slid his eyes shut and tried to soak in the melody.
"Let me try," Steven said, and Marc nodded. The shift took less than three seconds, and Steven fumbled with the bag to take out another grape.
"Go slow. Don't want to frighten it. I've been gaining their trust for months."
Steven tutted and leaned forward, extending his arm and presenting the grape. "You have no faith in me, Marc Spector."
As the fruit left his hand, Steven curled his fingers into his palm. "There we go," he cooed and drew his arm back. "All done for the day, I'm afraid. Marc will come back soon, yeah?"
"Yeah," Marc mumbled.
"He says he will."
The duck quacked, as if it understood, and turned away. It went to join its friends by the pond.
Marc began to push forward, and Steven rolled his shoulders, wordlessly nodding. Marc closed the bag and went to shove it into his jacket pocket. "You enjoy that?"
"Oh yeah. I can see why you come here."
Marc watched the ducks for a moment, the joggers that passed by, and tipped his head back, eyeing other birds that flew overhead.
"Peaceful, isn't it?"
He squeezed his eyes closed, then, until he saw weird colors behind his eyelids, until it hurt. Marc didn't know if Steven was expecting a response or if his comment was merely a comment. In either case, Steven didn't say anything else.
Marc lifted a hand and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. He relaxed the muscles in his face, but kept his eyes closed. A small pulse was underneath his touch. Pressing his hand closer, Marc shook his head.
It used to be even more peaceful.
Shit, he had to—he needed to—fuck.
Marc lowered his hand and stared at his fingers, his knuckles. The skin was unblemished, unbroken.
"Stevie?"
"Mhm?"
"Have you… have you—" Marc set his hand in his lap, making a fist and dragging his knuckles against the inseam of his jeans. It stung. "Have you seen him anymore since? Or, or noticed anything… funky? Or whatever." His words stumbled out, and Marc grimaced. He quickened his hand, almost finding the repetitive gesture soothing.
Steven was quiet for a few seconds. Each one that ticked by made Marc's frown deepen.
"No," Steven finally said, sounding small. "Not a peep."
Marc rested his hand on his thigh and stretched out his fingers. His knuckles were pink, inflamed. "Me neither."
"Not that I've been looking," Steven quickly added. "What good would that do, eh? It'd disrupt what we have here, like you said. Don't want that. We're happy."
Marc slowly nodded and moved to stand, sticking his hands into his jacket pockets, mindful of the bag in his left one. "Yeah, right. You're right." He sniffed and raised a hand to rub his nose. "You'd tell me, though?" he asked, the question falling from his lips again. "I mean, I know you would. I just. Need to hear it." Marc wrinkled his nose and shook his head, starting to walk down the path. "You know. Reassurance. I need that, too."
Six seconds passed before Steven said, "Yes. Of course, Marc. Yeah."
"Good."
"And—and the same from you? Yeah?"
"What?"
"Like… you'd tell me? If you saw him? Or noticed anything… funky?"
Marc was thankful Steven couldn't see him. If he could, he'd see Marc grimace and wince. He'd see Marc run his fingers through his hair, grabbing a handful and pulling. "Yeah," Marc said, tugging just a little harder. "Of course."
"Good, alright."
A duck quacked as he walked past. Marc gave an apologetic look and waved a hand in its direction.
Steven passed his hands over his face, water trickling down his cheeks and arms. He shook his hands, switched off the faucet, and stared at his reflection. It was only him in the mirror. Marc must have still been in their headspace, resting. He usually roused when Steven did, so it would only be a matter of time before he'd pop in with a "morning."
He touched his face again, running his fingers across his eyebrows and forehead.
Steven was getting quicker at this.
He brushed his thumb over one of his eyebrows, pulling it up, trying to capture the playfulness he had seen. His other hand plucked at his mouth, dragging his lips into that hidden smile. Marc often shielded the full extent of his expressions because he was embarrassed, in disbelief, or surprised. Steven didn't yet know why he held back.
Tracing his fingertips along his lips, he mouthed, "Ah."
Curiosity, intrigue. Oh, but he still couldn't get his eyes right.
"Ah," he whispered, still tracing. "Ah."
Maybe he wasn't meant to. After all, he couldn't perfectly replicate the looks Marc gave him.
Steven dropped his hands and shut his eyes. He grabbed the sides of the sink and carefully breathed in.
"Morning," Marc said.
Opening his eyes, Steven saw Marc yawn and ruffle his hair. He softly smiled and loosened his grip on the sink. "Hey, you. Morning."
"Just tours today?"
"Good on you, remembering," Steven teased.
His hand lifted and held the side of his face. Steven felt his heart skip in his chest. He watched Marc, meeting a soft, intent stare. His thumb pressed against his lower lip. "You wouldn't want to be late." Marc raised his brows, a smile growing on his face. "That'd be terrible."
"Terrible," Steven breathed.
"Might get written up."
"Written up."
"Might have to do inventory."
"Inventory."
His hand dropped, and Steven sighed, bowing his head. He listened to Marc laugh and roughly swallowed. "Arse."
"You love me."
Steven froze and widened his eyes. He snapped up his head and looked into the mirror, but he only saw himself. Love? Steven touched the edge of the mirror, his heart beating faster.
It was only a joke. They were bantering.
Love?
Steven sputtered and rubbed his face. He was warm. A blush creeped onto his cheeks. "Arse," he hissed and went into the kitchen.
Marc dreamed of the psychiatric facility. It was one of his least favorite dreams.
Small taps and scratches came from Marc's left. He kept his stare focused ahead at some blank wall. Each scratch brought a shiver down his spine, an unsettling feeling he could never shake.
Let. Me. Out.
Something was clawing at his chest. He wanted to scream. It bubbled beneath his skin.
Let. Me.
Marc sucked in a breath through his teeth and looked at the red sarcophagus.
Out.
As he stared, as he turned to face it, the sarcophagus began to rock. It appeared to get more animated from his attention, like the inhabitant knew he was receiving it.
Marc walked toward it and before he crossed the threshold, he looked over his shoulder. He was alone. Steven wasn't behind him, with his nervous smile and egging Marc on.
He could bring him here. He could have Steven here, and they could—they could—
Marc roughly swallowed and looked back at the sarcophagus. "No," he breathed.
He stood in front of the coffin and gingerly touched it. The surface was cool against his fingers. The slow movement stopped, and the painted face seemed to look down at Marc, piercing. Marc firmly placed his palm against the lid, feeling the scratches and taps right below his hand.
This was as far as he always got.
The tapping switched to knocks, rough gnashing of knuckles against stone. The inhabitant was desperate. There was no cohesion or pattern to the knocking.
Let. Me. Out.
It was just incessant noise and pressure, trying to sway Marc. He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. "I can't," Marc mumbled. "I don't… I don't think I can."
Knocking became pounding. Quick, sharp thuds shook the lid. Marc instinctively pushed back. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. I know you're angry. I would be, too. Believe me."
There were now two fists smashing against the stone, and Marc added his other hand to the lid. He stared at a spot on the sarcophagus, at the worn-away paint and dust. "I can't," he said, breath hitching in his throat. "I fucking can't."
Let—
A scream came from inside the sarcophagus, a deep, guttural noise that made the room rock. Marc squeezed his eyes shut and felt his heart race and stomach churn. He rested his forehead on the lid and winced as the stone pressed into his skin and the lid continued to jolt.
"I can't," Marc whispered. He couldn't hear himself over the shouts. "I can't, I can't, I can't."
A loud thud bounced against his forehead, and Marc gasped.
He woke up and fought to catch his breath. His knuckles hurt, and he realized he was clutching the bed covers. Peeling his hands away, Marc rubbed at his fingers. He chewed on his lip and glanced at the mirror on the nightstand.
Thankfully, he was alone. Marc didn't know if he could talk to Steven now.
Slowly, he sat up in bed and wiped the back of his hand across his face. He was sweating, and hoped the wetness beneath his eyes was from that.
Marc rolled his shoulders and stuck out his leg. He undid the ankle restraint, left it on the bed, and dragged himself out. He nearly stepped into the sand, stumbling at the last second.
"Fuck," he hissed.
He set his hands on his waist and walked across the apartment, biting the inside of his cheek. Out of the corner of his eye, he frowned at the open curtains.
Marc went over to the window and peered at the streets below. There were three people, all at separate points, minding their business at four in the morning. The stars shone above. The full moon was nauseating.
Marc closed the curtains and turned away, firmly pressing his lips together. He pushed his hands through his hair and looked at the tall shelves that decorated the apartment.
It seemed so simple. If he could open that fucking box, then he wouldn't be tormented with these nightmares. But if he opened that fucking box, then things could never go back to normal. He'd have to deal with the consequences.
They would. He and Steven.
Marc lowered his hands and frowned.
If he could just prepare, if he knew what he was up against—
Marc grimaced, swallowed, and marched across the room. He paused in front of a shelf and pushed aside books and trinkets. Marc snatched a ratty notebook and flipped through it, seeing the occasional scribbled grocery list. Nothing too important. He ripped out the pages he found, crumbled them into a ball, one-handed against his chest, and went to Steven's desk.
He tossed the pages into the nearby trash can and opened to a blank page, about midway through the notebook. Marc stood by the desk, hovering, not wanting to drag the chair across the wooden floor. He looked at the book on hieroglyphics opened next to him. A pencil nestled in the pages, and Marc plucked it out.
Without a second thought, Marc feverishly scribbled each instance he knew Other-Us was there. Each bruise he noticed, each scratch and cut, each forgotten ankle restraint and piece of tape, each footprint in the sand, each annoyed grimace he had seen in the mirror, each blackout he remembered having since Cairo.
Marc held his fist to his mouth and scanned down the list. Having things written plainly made it more… real. His stomach was in knots. Marc closed the notebook and pressed his knuckles into the cover.
He needed to hide this. Keep adding to it. Prepare for, for…
Marc blinked several times and glared at the notebook. "What am I doing?" he muttered. He dropped the pencil back into the book and opened the notebook. He flipped through the pages until he found his list and promptly tore it out. "I can't, I can't," Marc added in a whisper.
Steven could find this. He had gone hunting around before. He could do it again. And he would know Marc hadn't been truthful, wasn't being fair to him.
Again.
Marc smashed the paper into the smallest ball he could. He flattened it between his palms, pressing harder and harder. "I'm sorry, Steven."
Marc shoved the crumpled ball into the trash and stashed the notebook in its original spot on the bookshelf. He rearranged it a few times, trying to recall its exact position when he grabbed it. Once he was reasonably satisfied, Marc walked to the bed. He crawled under the covers, slipped on the ankle cuff, pulled it on tight, and fell back.
It was almost like he had never gotten out of bed.
Except when Marc woke a few hours later to find that piece of paper taped to the fish tank.
He stood several feet away, bowl of dry Cheerios in his hand, and stared at the notebook paper. At first, Marc thought it could have already been there, put there by Steven. It could have been a list of errands or groceries or book chapters he wanted to still annotate. Anything but the list Marc had scribbled down.
Marc slowly walked to the fish tank, each step sending chills down his back. He narrowed his eyes at the paper, and there was no denying it. It was his handwriting, the list, and the paper had been straightened out.
Maybe he had sleepwalked. Guilty conscious and all that.
Gus 2 and Gus 3 looked at him. Marc glared at the new addition at the top of the page. There were just two measly things: a smiley face and J. It was written in pen. He didn't know where a pen would be.
Marc carefully breathed in, trying to combat the nausea rising, and peeled the paper off the fish tank. He held it to his nose, staring staring staring at the curve of that single J. It looked like it was done without care. It was teasing him.
The paper wrinkled against his grip.
"Jay," Marc whispered.
He grimaced, set his Cheerios on the desk, and nearly sprinted into the kitchen. He had to get rid of this fucking paper now.
Marc stopped in the center of the kitchen and waved his hands, continuing to crinkle and crush the paper. "What the fuck am I doing?" he muttered and hurried to the counter. He yanked open a drawer and began to push aside trinkets, tools, and junk.
"Aha," he sighed and grabbed a lighter. He twisted and leaned over the sink, quickly striking the lighter. Dangling the corner of the paper over the flame, Marc watched as it was consumed. He dropped it into the sink and attempted to smother the grin on his face. Once it was more on fire than not, Marc flipped on the faucet and chuckled as the ashes washed down the drain. He rubbed his fingers into the sink, helping it along until it was gone. He turned off the water.
Marc shook his hand and glanced at the toaster. He narrowed his eyes, only seeing himself. Smirking, he turned his back on the reflection. Another shiver started, and he rolled his shoulders. Marc bit the inside of his cheek, the lighter moving between his fingers, and pivoted on his heel.
Again, he saw himself in the shiny surface of the toaster. A cautious, uneasy look in his eyes, a slight wrinkle to his nose, and fidgeting fingers. And then slowly, just as carefully, his reflection turned fully. He faced Marc and folded his arms over his chest. He jutted out his chin and gave a quick roll of his shoulders, too. This wasn't Steven. This could never be Steven.
Marc remained still, studying the man who looked back at him. Seconds ticked by, and the uneasiness grew in the pit of Marc's stomach. This was the longest span of time they had maintained contact. Before, Marc was privileged to only see him for mere seconds.
Teasing, always teasing.
Marc wet his lips and waved a couple fingers at the toaster-reflection. "You're not smiling."
He tipped his head to the side, brow raising and an eye squinting.
"Your little note? You just left a smiley face. But I'm not seeing it. Just a fucking scowl."
Scowl was a harsh word. The hairs on the back of his neck raised. He felt like running, thought of taking a deep breath and bolting out the front door and not looking back. He'd run until his legs gave out.
Right now, his feet seemed to be melted to the floor. Marc could do nothing but stare at his other alter, whose disgruntled expression slowly shifted into a less serious one, evoking a smidge of playfulness and interest with the quirk of a brow and the growing curl to his mouth.
"Would you like me to smile, Marc Spector?" he asked.
Oh, Steven was right. His voice was deeper, rugged, breathy, and, and, and—
The lighter slipped from Marc's fingers. He winced as it clattered to the floor and instinctively looked down. A quick glance, and then he returned to the reflection.
It was only him.
Marc exhaled, his breath catching. He watched his own face screw up, frown, and brows crease with… what was he feeling? His chest was tight, his stomach still in knots. His heart raced, and his throat was dry. Marc pressed a hand to his abdomen and crouched to pick up the lighter. He lingered there, bowing his head and momentarily leaning his forehead against a knee. That helped slow down his spinning head.
He straightened up, smoothing his thumb down the lighter, and tossed a look to the toaster.
Steven smiled at him, bright, cheery, the embodiment of the sun. "Morning!"
Marc hated how he jumped, cursed, flinched. "Shit, Steven. Come on." He cleared his throat and looked away. "Morning," he added, reaching out to tug the drawer open and toss the lighter back inside.
The sunlight was quickly extinguished. Steven stared at Marc, an immediate frown on his face. He set a hand on his hip, his other hand raised. "I'm not some jumpscare now, am I? What's got you so spooked?"
Marc swallowed and shook his head. He walked back to the living room, picking up his bowl of Cheerios.
"And the lighter? Were you smoking?"
"What? No, I wasn't. I don't do that anymore."
"Then what—" he stopped, frowning again.
Marc shoved a handful of Cheerios into his mouth and watched Steven in the fish tank. His expression was soft, kind, searching. He pulled at the sleeves of his shirt, nervously pursing his lips. Gus 3 swam through his reflection, and Marc looked away.
"Did you… did you have a bad dream?" he asked. "Or did you see—"
"Yeah, Steven," Marc interrupted, walking over to sit on the couch. Steven appeared on the dark screen of the television, still worried and curious. "I had a bad dream. That fucking psych ward."
"Yeah, alright," Steven breathed, nodding. He didn't need any further explanation. He was also quite aware of that dream. "What a-about that second part? My second question." He wrung his hands, hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller. "Was it only the dream?"
Marc picked up two Cheerios and pressed them together. He watched small particles fall back into the bowl. His gut reaction was to lie, tell Steven no I haven't seen him, and that made it difficult to take a deep breath, to fill his lungs and talk. Marc still tried, and he wrinkled his nose as his breath hitched. "Maybe, I think. I dunno. For a split second." He popped the Cheerios into his mouth and scratched his chest. "In the kitchen. I, uh, saw something outta the corner of my eye. Thought it was you. It wasn't."
"Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, Marc."
Marc shut his eyes and gave a firm head shake. "What? No, don't apologize, Steven. Fuck. It's not your fault."
"I know, but I…" Steven paused, biting his lip. "Did he do anything? Say anything?"
Marc glanced at the television, his chest aching at Steven's wide eyes. "No," he said. "No. Don't worry about it, yeah?" He pushed some Cheerios around in the bowl.
"Okay," Steven mumbled. "Is there anything I can do? You still look a bit peaky."
He was already shaking his head at Steven's question, the reaction immediate, instinctual. Marc rolled his eyes at himself. Still hard to accept help, but Steven's genuine composure made it a little easier. Marc sniffed and shrugged a shoulder. "Doesn't matter how many times I have that damn dream. It still fucking tears at me every time."
"Marc."
"You've got work, though. I can't keep you."
"It's Saturday, yeah? I've got today off. Dylan needed to pick up an extra shift, so. Could hardly believe it myself."
Marc lowered the bowl and looked at Steven. The tightness in his chest was easing, like a hand that was squeezing something was being pulled away, finger by finger.
Steven offered a smile, pointing his thumbs at himself. "You've got me all day, if you'd like."
The squeezing happened again, but for a much different reason. Want, not guilt. Marc wished he could throw the bowl of cereal over his shoulder and run to Steven. He'd scoop him up, Steven's arms finding their home around his neck and his legs around his waist, and take him to bed. Oh, they wouldn't leave that fucking bed all day.
Marc lowered his gaze, his face no doubt growing pink with each breath, and placed the bowl on the coffee table. He rubbed a hand into his thigh and absently wet his lips. Slowly, his hand pressed a little deeper, the touch more intentional, and Marc stared at his hand. He blinked, raising his eyebrows, and looked up at Steven.
Lips parted in concentration, Steven watched him. There was a slight furrow in his brow as he ran his hand up Marc's thigh, to the junction of his hip. He didn't linger for long. Steven cupped his front, humming. "You're getting hard."
Marc nodded, and Steven moved his thumb along the length of his cock. "What were you thinking about, Marc Spector?" He smiled, perking up.
A small shiver prickled at Marc's neck. He compared the two instances he had been called his full name just that morning. Both teasing, both wanting to draw a reaction out of him. He knew what Steven wanted. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted.
Steven gripped him, and Marc huffed out a breath, smiling, too, pushing Other-Us out of his mind for now. "Fucking you," he said. "Pressing that pretty face into a pillow and taking you."
"Ooh, because I said you had me all day? Naughty man. I was wanting to take care of you, looking all frightened and on-edge. Look at you now, though. Getting some color back to that handsome face. Maybe you don't need me to take care of you."
The hand dragged off him, and Marc grabbed his wrist to pull his hand toward his lap. "Steven," he mumbled. "Please, yes, take care of me. I do need it." The aching was back, and Marc attempted to swallow it down. "I do. Don't make me be—"
He abruptly stood, a hand still lightly squeezing his cock, and picked up the Cheerio bowl. Marc furrowed his brow, and Steven walked back into the kitchen. One last rub, Steven moved his hand to shovel more cereal into his mouth. "Not gonna make you beg," Steven said, crumbs falling. "Hush, love, we'll make a day of it."
For a moment, Marc's knees grew weak. He didn't know if it was him or Steven. Though Steven was in control, the way his voice curled around hush love absolutely made Marc want to turn into a puddle. "Love?" he asked, and Steven stuffed his face again.
"Pet name," Steven said, mouth full but still understandable. He was quick, not looking at Marc. He placed the bowl on the counter, just a few more cereal pieces at the bottom. A blush spread across his cheeks. "I can take it back," he added, scratching the nape of his neck. An eye squeezed closed, he peeked over his shoulder at the mirror on their nightstand.
Marc swallowed, biting back a smile. "You don't want to do that. Don't do that." He sighed. "I don't want you to."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Say it again."
Steven turned around and walked over to the bed. "Love," he softly said, crawling onto the covers. "Love."
Marc closed his eyes and slowly nodded.
Steven sat cross-legged in front of the mirror, watching Marc. He reached out, fingertips pressing against the corner of the glass. "What do you like about it, me calling you that?" Steven traced the curve of Marc's jaw. He looked peaceful. There were still hard edges, but they weren't as sharp.
Humming low, Marc began to shake his head. He stared at Steven, tipping his chin up. His throat was dry. He didn't think he could answer that now. He'd have to articulate what he was feeling in his head and heart, the fluttering in his chest. That would be too… too…
"Touch me," Marc whispered.
Steven wordlessly nodded, laid down, and Marc's head hit the pillows. "Close your eyes," Steven whispered back. "Let me take care of you."
Marc slid his eyes shut and felt Steven's hands roam down his chest, to his waist. He palmed his cock, still half-hard, and rubbed his hand up until he ducked it beneath the waistband of his underwear. Marc sighed, his hips rocking against Steven's touch.
Warm, careful, more sure, Steven wrapped his fingers around his cock. He gave a couple slow pumps, collecting the wetness on the head and dragging it down. "Already wet for me," he muttered, and Marc squirmed.
With his eyes closed, it was easier to imagine Steven laying next to him. His hand shoved in Marc's pants, a delicate balance of care and desperation in his actions. "Look at you, Marc, love. Absolutely gorgeous."
Marc raised his other hand to his lips, muffling moans against his fingers. He canted his hips, meeting Steven's movements with his own thrusts. He kissed his palm, the meaty part of his thumb. It was Steven. It was Steven he was kissing, trailing kisses down the curve of his wrist. "Steven, baby, keep going."
Steven shushed him, a gentle noise that made Marc shudder and arch his back.
His clothes were quickly discarded and shoved to the floor, and the bed covers twisted and wrinkled. Marc came with a groan, his fingers in his mouth as he spilled into his fist. Drool dripped down his chin.
Marc finally opened his eyes, setting his hands on his chest, and looked at Steven in the mirror. He laid back, breathing almost as heavily as he was, and smiled at Marc. "Getting better at that, eh?"
Marc laughed. "Hell yeah you are."
Somehow, Steven smiled wider.
Marc rolled onto his side and scooted over to the nightstand, plucking a few tissues from the nearby box. He cleaned his hand and, out of the corner of his eye, glanced at the mirror. "Your turn," he said.
Steven nearly balked, widening his eyes and sitting up. "My—"
"—Only if you want to." Marc crumpled the tissues and dropped them onto the nightstand. He wet his lips and fully looked at the mirror, smiling at Steven's curls sticking up every which way.
"I mean, yeah."
Marc nodded. "Okay. I want to try something."
"What exactly would you want to try?" Steven asked, easily shifting over. He leaned back, and Marc touched his cheeks, chest. His hand trailed below his waist, skimming along the coarse hair before lazily stroking his cock. Steven sighed, eyes briefly closing.
"I have lubricant in the nightstand."
Marc gently squeezed his cock, dragging his palm against his balls. Steven hummed, a rumble in his chest. His head was swimming. "Lubricant," he mumbled. Marc moved his thumb across his frenulum. Steven jerked his hips and raised his brows. "Oh." He looked at Marc, who had a smirk playing on his lips. "Lubricant."
Marc pulled his hand back and let it rest on his abdomen. Steven attempted to calm his head. It wasn't working. He stared at Marc and nodded, feeling like a wanton bobblehead. "Yes, please, I want to try."
His hand raised to cradle his face. "Let me take care of you," Marc said. "Close your eyes."
Steven obeyed, doing his best to relax and let Marc take more control. He felt a bit silly as he was dragged across the bed and blindly fumbled with the drawer. Marc laughed, a warm sound that filled his chest with butterflies.
"Such a good boy, listening to me."
"Yeah, well," Steven said, shivering, and grabbed the bottle of lubricant. He rolled back to his original place and sighed. "How long have you had this?" he asked, listening to the contents as Marc shook the bottle. The lid popped open, and Steven pressed his heels into the covers.
"A while."
"A while," Steven mumbled.
Marc laughed again and squeezed the bottle. Steven waited, biting the inside of his cheek, and squirmed when Marc grabbed his cock. Slick, an easy slide, Steven moaned softly.
"Good boy," Marc whispered.
Steven grabbed a fistful of blankets with his free hand and covered his mouth.
In a matter of minutes, Marc had Steven on his side, a leg slightly bent at the knee, arm tossed behind him, and his middle finger buried in himself, knuckle-deep. Steven turned his head to the pillow, breathing heavily as he concentrated on Marc carefully working into him. In, out, slow, teasing.
"You okay?"
"Yes. More than that. Please go on." Steven tipped his hips, leaning back into Marc's touch. He groaned, absently nodding. "Fucking hell."
"Is it good? Tell me."
"I'll blabber," Steven huffed.
"That's the point, baby."
Despite himself, Steven smiled and looked over the edge of the pillow, spying Marc in the mirror. The sight of Marc fingering himself, cock hard and rubbing against the bed covers with each jerk of his wrist, cheeks pink, hair a mess. Steven bowed his head and whimpered. "Good, so good, Marc. Keep doing—oh, do you think you could add another—oh fuck. That's, goddamn, fuck me, Marc. Fuck me, please, just like that."
Steven hid his face in the pillow, rocking his hips, moaning, gasping, coming.
"Christ, you're so fucking perfect, Steven."
He felt heavy. Steven rested his cheek on the pillow and didn't even care that drool caked his face or that he laid in ejaculate. He watched Marc and stretched out his limbs. "Noodles."
"Excuse me?"
"My arms and legs. They feel like noodles."
Marc rolled over and laughed. Head tipped back and hands to his chest, Steven thought he looked perfect, too.
As his laughter died, Marc looked at Steven again. The occasional giggle slipped out, but for the most part, Marc stared at him, that endearing expression on his face. Steven slid his arms underneath the pillow and held it closer. He knew he was blushing. It was a bit ridiculous, to be self-conscious and shy from Marc's loving stare after what they had just done.
Love.
Steven broke their stare before Marc could make a comment. He didn't know if he would have, but Steven didn't want to take any chances. He propped himself up on his elbows and sniffed. "Need to change the sheets. Actually should probably change everything."
"We'll do that. And then we'll…" Marc trailed off. He wet his lips and glanced at the ceiling.
Steven pressed his lips together and pinched the corner of the pillow. "Take care of each other," he finished. Because that's what the intention was, for him to take care of Marc. Yeah, he had been spooked. They needed to, they should—
Marc nodded, eyes everywhere but Steven. "Yeah."
Steven stripped the bed and changed the sheets.
Marc got him off again, a quickie as he was surrounded by clean linen.
Steven paid him back in the shower, nearly making Marc slip and take the shower curtain with him.
After that, they lost count of who was supposed to get off who, a mix of switching and each other's moans falling from their lips.
Steven didn't ask Marc more about his dream or seeing him, and Marc didn't bring it up. That night, they each laid in bed facing the mirror, an arm outstretched toward it. Marc to the reflection, Steven to the outside, to Marc, their fingers lightly twitching as they slept.
A small child had sneezed into his mouth.
Steven was being kind, crouching to get on the child's level and attempting to engage. The rest of the group had scattered throughout the room, Steven giving them a few minutes to browse the artifacts. In front of the display of Anubis, staring starry-eyed and inquisitively, was the child.
"Ah, Anubis grabbed your interest, I see. I've actually heard he was quite a friendly chap, if you can get past that jackal head."
And the child turned directly to Steven and sneezed in his face.
Days later, Steven curled up miserably on the couch. Head and nose stuffed up, he kept a box of tissues nestled in the crook of his arm.
"Have you eaten anything? You should really be in bed."
Steven shot a look in the mirror on the coffee table. Marc had insisted he bring it over if Steven wasn't going back to bed. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, holding the tissue box closer. "Don't wanna eat," he said, voice scratchy. "Not hungry. And I'm comfortable here. Can't watch the telly from bed."
Marc sighed, shaking his head. "Fine. But if you won't fix yourself something to eat later, I'll take the damn body and do it myself."
A faint smile on his lips, Steven couldn't muster the energy to actually laugh. He rubbed his cheek against the pillow and curled into a tighter ball. "Please do. But not now. I'm comfortable."
"You said that. D'you have a fever?"
Steven closed his eyes, starting to shake his head. He did feel warm, like he should push the blanket away, but he pulled it right under his nose. "Little one," he mumbled.
"What was that?"
"Maybe a little one."
He listened to Marc sigh again. It sounded sad. "Just rest. I'll check on you in a bit."
"Thank you."
His fever-addled, sick brain let him sleep heavily for several hours. Steven woke in a shiver, his shirt drenched in sweat. He groaned, pushed the tissues onto the floor, and tried to wrap the blanket even tighter around himself.
It was dark in the flat, the only lights being from the television playing some show. Steven didn't know what it was. He frowned at the screen and blinked a few times. He must have still been half-asleep. The show didn't sound like it was in English.
Steven sniffed and trailed his eyes toward the mirror. Did Marc pop back in like he said he would? How many times did he, just to see Steven snoozing like a giant sick baby?
Incidentally, this was such a time. Steven smiled softly at Marc, who was sitting on his mirror-couch, leaned back as he propped his feet up on the coffee table. "Hiya," he said. "I think my fever broke. If you couldn't tell. Sweating like a whore in church."
Marc smiled, too, sinking further into the couch and tipping his head back.
"Feel a little woozy, though. Might be a good idea to eat something."
Without a second thought, Steven felt his arms and legs act of their own accord. The blanket was tossed aside, and he was guided into the kitchen. Only using the moonlight peeking from the window, Marc fixed a can of chicken noodle soup for Steven.
Holding the bowl under his nose, Steven carefully returned to the couch. "This is already making me feel even better." He set the bowl on the coffee table and pulled the blanket back into his lap. Adjusting the mirror, dragging it closer to the edge of the table, Steven then picked up the bowl of soup. He gave Marc a wide smile and dug in.
Marc sat on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, and watched Steven. He looked tired. He seemed to have run his fingers through his hair repeatedly, absently. Steven's curls hung in his face, and he pushed them back. Marc's eyes followed his every move.
Steven felt a bit scrutinized, but it wasn't judgment on Marc's face. It was care.
"You're being quiet," Steven said, slurping a noodle.
Marc rubbed his face, smoothing his hands across his brows. It must have been his expression, the heavy lids of his eyes, or the flash of a scene change on the television, illuminating Steven's face and, in turn, the reflection in the mirror. It was just a flash. Just a flash.
Marc slid his eyes over to Steven, a slow crawl of brown eyes so dark they might as well have been black, and gave a small smile. Lips pressed tight, he wrinkled his nose.
"Oh," Steven breathed. The edge of the spoon pressed into his thumb.
"Steven," he said, voice low, cautious.
He held the end of the spoon to his mouth, widening his eyes, shivering. "Oh, you're not Marc," he whispered.
Not-Marc wet his lips and bowed his head in a short nod. "No."
"Where's Marc?"
"Resting. He's, ya know." He gestured to his head.
Steven nodded, glancing at his soup. "But he's okay?"
"Of course he is."
"Was he… was he ever here? Like, watching me… while I slept." Steven chewed on his lip. "He said he would check on me," he added.
"He has several times. Now he's taking a break. I'm here."
"Okay."
Steven and Other-Us stared at each other. He stirred the spoon into the bowl and slowly took another bite, not taking his eyes off the mirror. The hard edges Steven always pictured weren't there. He was like Marc in that way. The look in his eye was almost like him, too. The color was darker, somehow. The narrowed eyes, the tilt of his head as he watched, how there was something behind the look, something more, something like—
Steven swallowed, tearing his gaze away. He settled on the television and pointed at it. "Were you—" His breath hitched, and Steven briefly closed his eyes, wincing, hating himself and how his cheeks warmed and not from a fever. "Were you watching this?" he finished.
"Shitty telenova," he said, falling back against the couch cushions. He set a foot on the coffee table, his other leg bouncing.
Steven blinked and straightened up. "Oh," he said, pieces clicking. The show was in Spanish. Ah, that hint of an accent buried in his voice.
He scrunched his nose and slurped down some more noodles. Nodding his head toward the screen, Steven said, "I don't think I care much for this. Maybe if I started from the beginning. And had subtitles."
Laughter. It was a deep rattle that twisted Steven's stomach. He smiled into the bowl.
They sat in silence as the episode ended and Steven finished his soup. He lowered the bowl and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
"Oh, good, you're up. Must be feeling better, yeah?" Marc said.
Steven flinched, shoulders hunching, the spoon clattering against the bowl. He looked at the mirror, seeing Marc smiling at him, relief on his face. That relief soon disappeared, a frown growing. Steven cleared his throat and set the bowl on the coffee table. "You startled me. It's been quiet."
"Sorry, Stevie."
"It's okay. Not your fault." Steven grabbed the television remote and flipped the channel. "And yes, to answer your question. I am feeling a bit better. Well enough to eat." He paused, glancing down. "I think my fever broke. That's what woke me in the first place."
Marc hummed. "I can tell." He pushed his hair back and sighed, cheeks puffing out. "You've slept, like, ten hours." He rubbed his chin, lips, a smile away.
Steven left the channel on some nature documentary. He stretched out on the couch, fixing the blanket around him. "I might sleep for ten more," he mumbled. He gave Marc a smile.
"Fine with me," Marc said, laying back on the mirror-couch and pulling a pillow to his chest. "I'll be here with you."
Steven looked at him from the corner of his eye. Marc rubbed his thumb against the fabric. "Yeah?"
Marc bent a leg, curling his toes. He heard them crack. "Well, I'll try. I get tired, too."
He had no idea, did he?
Steven grabbed a handful of the blankets and held them to his mouth. He kept his eyes on Marc, attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible. Marc was none the wiser, leaning his head against the armrest to stare at the ceiling. His arm around the pillow tightened, holding it closer. It was an unconscious motion, a flex of muscle. His hand smoothed down the pillow and back up, absent.
He was relaxed. He was tired. His jaw was slack. His eyes were half-narrowed. The side of his face illuminated as the screen flashed. This was Marc.
Steven had spent months cataloging Marc's facial features, his subtle movements and mannerisms. They were imprinted in his memory.
And yet, he had spent several minutes with their other alter, and still thought it was Marc.
Except, no, there were differences, yeah? The flat was dark, too, and his head was still a bit fuzzy from being sick. As soon as he had a better look, Steven knew. The grimaces, the set of his shoulders, how he rubbed his face. That wasn't Marc. Not completely.
He smiled and laughed at Steven, though. That was… something.
Steven burned. He buried his face into the blanket and closed his eyes. He wished he and Marc were sharing the couch together, trying their best to both comfortably fit. Marc would have his arm around Steven. He might have pushed his hair off his forehead and kissed the skin he uncovered. One last thing to do before they settled to sleep more.
He also wished he could tell Marc about who watched Steven when he had to rest, who had made him chicken noodle soup. Well, why couldn't he tell him? Just tell him. Tell him. Fucking tell him, Steven, do it.
Steven rubbed at his eyes, feeling the sharp sting of tears. He sniffed and popped his face from the blankets, the cool air of the room hitting him. Looking back at the mirror, Marc seemed to sleep. His eyes were closed, and the pillow slowly rose and fell on his chest.
"Marc," he whispered.
"Hm?" Marc stirred, tilting his head toward the sound of his voice.
His heart was pounding. He breathed in, wiped his nose on the edge of the blanket, and said, "Thank you for taking care of me."
Marc furrowed his brows, laying still for a moment. He opened his eyes and looked at Steven, a small smile forming. "Yeah, of course." Clearing his throat, he shifted on the couch, slightly pushing himself up, getting a better look at Steven. "You don't have to thank me."
"I wanted to," mumbled Steven.
Marc smiled a little wider, shutting one of his eyes, and watched him. "You good?"
"Huh, what? Yeah, yeah. I'm good." Steven turned on his side and tucked his arm underneath his pillow. "Just wanted to show my appreciation." He dropped his head on the pillow and stared at Marc. "Are you good?"
Marc settled back down, sticking an arm behind his head. "Kinda wish I was laying next to you right now, but yeah. I'm good."
Steven covered the lower part of his face with the blanket, in part to hide his smile and ridiculous blushing. "Good," he sighed.
Steven listened to the documentary rattle on. He continued to watch Marc in the mirror, one arm still loosely wrapped around the pillow and a leg propped up on the back of the couch. His eyes slowly slid closed and then fluttered open, as if he wanted to stay awake. Steven couldn't imagine Marc with dark, dark eyes. How funny.
