Steven noticed it in the morning. At first, he didn't think anything of it. With the dim overhead bulb in the bathroom, obscured more with the shower curtain, it might have been a trick of the light. Perhaps the dark splotch on the left side of his abdomen was only dirt.
He frowned as he dragged the soapy washcloth across the spot, thinking it wouldn't take much for it to disappear. Wincing, Steven breathed, "Huh." With the slightest pressure, there was a twinge as he touched the place. His frown deepened, and he tipped his head to the side. Steven twisted in the shower, lifting an arm and attempting to get a better look at the spot. It wasn't that large, just a couple inches. He scrunched his nose when the water sprayed into his eyes and lifted a hand to shield his face. His heel struck the side of the tub, and he stumbled. Dropping the washcloth, Steven smacked his palm against the wall to steady himself. "Fucking hell."
Marc laughed. "Steven, you gotta be careful. I check out for two seconds, and you're dancing around."
"Shut it," Steven grumbled, crouching to grab the washcloth. The water splashed into his face again, and he shook his head. He stood up straight, and Marc walked him back.
"Okay, not dancing. Checking something out, then?"
Steven narrowed his eyes at the shower head, seeing a glimmer of his reflection. Marc smiled at him. "Yeah, yeah, actually, I was checking something out."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah!" Steven breathed in and squeezed the washcloth.
"Tell me."
"I thought," he started, reaching over to turn off the water, and yanked the shower curtain back. "I saw a bruise." Steven angled himself toward the light and watched water droplets roll down his chest. Furrowing his brow, he began to twist again. Maybe it wasn't in that spot. Showers are weird, liminal space, maybe it was a little to the left—
Marc touched his chest, pressing fingers down his abdomen. "I'm not seeing a bruise, Steven."
He wasn't seeing one either. Was it just dirt? Steven slid his palm along his side, where the bruise had been, applying pressure here and there. No pain, no remnants of what he had seen on his skin. "I swear," he mumbled, trailing off. "It hurt when I touched it."
"Scrubbed too hard, probably."
Steven frowned and lowered his hand. "Probably." He chewed on his lip and absently kneaded his fingers into the washcloth.
"Were you gonna accuse me of getting ourselves bruised?"
He quickly blinked and shook his head. "No! No, I wasn't. How dare you."
"Then you did it."
"I, I—well."
"You walk around this fucking place with your nose in a book so many times. Wouldn't be surprised if you had bumped into something," teased Marc.
"It wasn't a bruise, though," Steven said. "Because it's gone, and bruises don't just do that."
There was a beat of silence, the only sound being the occasional drip-drip from the shower head.
Bruises would do that before. Before they were released.
Steven roughly swallowed. But this wasn't a bruise, just a rather painful dirt spot or something.
"We need to get to work," Marc said, tossing the washcloth over his shoulder and stepping out of the shower. "Can't be late again." He grabbed a towel and stood in front of the mirror. Passing it through his hair, Marc narrowed his eyes at Steven's coy expression.
"You could stop that, you know. Me bumping into things like I'm in an ol' pinball machine."
Marc lowered the towel and studied Steven. There was a small crinkle in his brow, his lips still turned up as he tried to joke themselves out of this. He smiled, too, and glanced down. His chest tightened, and he sighed softly. "I like watching you," he said and rubbed the towel against his face before he caught Steven's reaction. He turned away, and Steven walked through the flat, dressing and gathering his things for work.
From time to time, he touched his cheeks, still feeling the warmth Marc left.
Steven couldn't quite thank Marc enough for getting back his job at the museum. He didn't ask for much details, and, frankly, Marc was dismissive of the whole ordeal. Muttering that it "wasn't a big deal, it was nothing, shut up, Steven, what did I say" was apparently the extent of what he wanted to share. All Steven knew was that Marc had left the flat one afternoon, he took a nice little doze, and then was coaxed awake by a very delectable wine that Marc had bought in celebration.
"Tour guide, too? Oh wow, Marc, you really didn't—"
"What did I say?" he had repeated, for the twelfth time that evening. "Yeah, I did. It was my fault anyway, so."
And that was that. And Steven got to entertain dozens of people with his potentially useless but quite interesting factoids about Egypt for hours each day.
"I don't even mind having to pop in for my old shift every now and again," he muttered, straightening up racks of anachronistic treats.
From the small circular mirror perched by the register, Marc watched him with a quirked brow. "You say that, and then I still gotta drag you here on those days."
Steven pressed his lips together, a hand hovering above the jelly snacks, and glanced at Marc. He reached over and angled the mirror away, and Marc laughed.
Trying to ignore the laughter and his warming face, Steven turned to straighten the rows of trinkets and toys. He lingered on a Taweret plush toy and straightened one of its ears. It must have been folded back in its packaging, almost permanently crooked now. The imperfection made it a bit endearing.
More laughter came from around the corner, much different from Marc's. Steven looked to see a small crowd of children and their parents enter the gift shop area. At the front of the gaggle was Dylan, lightly chastising two boys who were tossing elbows to pass each other. She glanced his way, and he gave a small smile. But as quickly as she looked at him, she disregarded him, lips tightly pursed as she addressed her tour group. "Thank you for being such a lovely crowd today. Please feel free to browse—"
"What's up with that?" Marc asked. "She always this rude?"
Steven faced the shelves again, crouching to reorganize the stationery. "She's probably still miffed that I stood her up. On our date. Which I didn't set up, by the way." He picked up a pyramid paperweight, smoothing his thumb along the edge.
Marc looked back at him through the reflective surface. "What are you suggesting?"
He wanted to joke, skate around what he was definitely suggesting. A smile found its way to his lips, but Marc didn't match his expression. Eyes narrowed, jaw set—right, not in a joking mood. But more than that, Marc seemed… upset? Steven watched as his stare softened and his brow furrowed. He carefully set the paperweight down. "That wasn't you?" he asked in a whisper.
Marc frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "Of course not."
"Well, I don't understand. Obviously, I had a date. She was very angry. Still is, even." He shook his head and gently pressed his index finger to the tip of the pyramid.
"I'm not lying."
Steven mumbled, "I know you're not. I know."
A crash broke his attention. Steven spun on the balls of his feet, eyes widening at the pair of boys reaching behind the counter and rifling through papers and items yet to be stocked. The rotating display of treats and other trinkets was knocked over. "Oi," he shouted, scrambling to his feet. "Yes, I'm talking to you two. That's not yours."
The boys laughed and darted from the counter, appearing empty-handed but leaving behind a mess. Steven stood by the register and sighed, half-heartedly brushing papers into a stack. "Bollocks."
His right arm extended and twisted the mirror back to face him. Steven blinked and looked at the mirror, meeting Marc's amused expression. "Bollocks," he echoed, lifting his voice just so to mock.
Steven cleared his throat and began to gather the papers. "You think you'd do that a bit better," he said, wrinkling his nose.
Marc huffed out a breath, looking away. Steven smiled, straightening the mini sarcophagi in the display.
Loud thudding reverberated behind his eyes, inside of his ribs. Knocking, clawing, muffled yelling. Suffocating, desperate. Let. Me. Out.
Steven gasped, shooting up in bed. Eyes widening, he fought for breath.
"Hey, Steven. Stevie, buddy, what's up?"
Marc lifted his hands, cradling his face, feeling his neck, his chest. Steven had sweat through his shirt.
"I-I, I don't know. Bad dream," he said, voice shaking. He tossed the bed covers aside and began to fiddle with the ankle restraint. Fingers tingling, Steven soon watched as Marc yanked it off for him. He pivoted them out of bed, minding the ring of sand, and marched to the bathroom, his stride more confident than Steven could muster.
"Okay, a dream. It's just a dream. You're okay," Marc said, flipping on the light. He stopped in front of the sink, and Steven fumbled with the dials. Marc shook his head, and Steven closed his eyes. "Hey, don't. Let me."
"Yeah. Yeah."
Marc dipped his head down, splashing cold water on his face. He rubbed at his eyes, tracing along his cheeks and the back of his neck. Tipping his head to the side, he took a few drinks of water, Steven noisily lapping up all he could. He didn't stop him.
Wiping his face, Marc stared at Steven in the mirror. Sleep still clouded his eyes, his hair tousled, and droplets of water clung to the hollow of his throat. Marc watched as he swallowed and slowly, deeply breathed in. Steven fluttered his eyes closed, and Marc pressed his lips together. He glanced down and ran his hand under the water again, quickly reaching up to pat the back of his neck again. He breathed in, too, just a bit more slowly, just a bit more deeply.
Steven cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said. "I would have been stumbling all over the place. Might have fallen on my face."
He shook his hand, flicking water back into the sink. "What was the dream you had?" Marc asked. He switched off the water and looked at him.
Steven's eyes narrowed lazily, and he glanced away. Marc tilted his head, attempting to follow him. He carefully lifted a hand and touched his cheek with his fingers. Skimming along the edge of his jaw, Steven looked back at him. He wrapped his arms around himself and huffed.
"Feel that?" Marc asked, voice low, rough.
Steven nodded.
"Tell me about your dream."
"It was that bloody psych ward," he sputtered. Steven scrubbed at his face, pushing his hair back. "Being trapped in that sarcophagus again. It was fucking terrifying." He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. "I didn't know if I'd ever come out. I was scared, and, and, angry."
Marc frowned. He held the sides of the sink and leaned closer to the mirror. "Angry? You didn't seem angry."
He slowly lowered his hands. Steven stared at his palms, his curled fingers. "I wasn't angry," he said, knitting his brows together and frowning, too. "Why did—I don't know why I said that." Steven cracked a smile, raising his head. "Got all muddled, I suppose."
Marc wasn't quick to reciprocate. He continued to study Steven, finding the smile genuine but the wrinkles by his eyes, the curve of his eyebrows gave a fuller picture. "That place really messed you up, huh?"
Steven snorted. "It wasn't a five-star resort, Marc. We were both nearly lost."
He tapped his palm against the side of the sink. "Yeah, I didn't like it either." Pushing off, the sink shook from the gesture. "Let's get you back to bed."
"I can do it," Steven said, turning off the light and leaving the bathroom. He walked across the room, carefully stepping over the sand, and sat on the edge of the bed. The moonlight streaming into the bedroom reflected off the shiny silver on the ankle restraint. It dangled from the post, haphazardly tossed aside. Steven leaned over and picked it up. Feeling heavy in his palm, he turned it over.
When they had returned from Egypt—a miracle in itself, practically—Marc and he resumed their usual routine, as if nothing had changed. But everything had, and yet here they were.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled. He rolled his shoulders.
Back there, with Harrow, they weren't alone. There was… there was—
"You're thinking too much," Marc said.
Steven glanced to the side, expecting, for a moment, to see Marc sitting next to him. But he was alone in their bed, the covers twisted and pillows shoved to the side. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked back at the restraint. Crossing his legs, right foot balanced on his left knee, Steven fastened it around his ankle. He tightened it, the sound of the material stretching making him shiver.
The bed had quickly turned cold when he was in the bathroom. Steven pulled the blankets closer, cradling them to his chest. "Maybe we could get a mirror to put near the bed," he mumbled, finding his cheeks warming as soon as he spoke. He raised the covers up to his nose.
"We could," Marc whispered. He flexed his fingers and pressed his palm to his chest. Steven stilled, and after several seconds, leaned into the touch. Marc firmly pushed against him, clutching his shirt. Lifting his other hand, Steven held onto his wrist.
His thumb cradled against the curve of it, he allowed Marc's pulse to lull him back to sleep.
Layla had wanted to remain in Cairo for a bit longer, feeling a pull to help with the clean up and do… whatever it was Taweret would like her to do. Marc hadn't asked for details of their conversations or their agreement, only expressing concern of being an Avatar for a God (or Goddess).
"Look, from my limited time with Taweret, she seems like a lovely lady. But you can never—"
"It's not like Khonshu," she said, with just a hint of a bite that he didn't expect. She smiled at him, at first playful. Her eyes, shiny and tearful, were narrowed, nose scrunched. She pressed her lips together, but a tremble still slipped through.
Marc huffed and nodded. He cradled the back of her head, fingers catching on her curls. "Yeah," he said, a touch more grim than he'd like. "Won't be like Khonshu."
Layla looked up at him, still trying to keep her smile. "I won't let it."
They kissed, Marc tightly wrapping his arms around her, her own looped around his neck. They clung, fought, ached. It had been months. He couldn't remember the last time he had kissed her.
His breath shaky, they parted, and Layla's smile grew. She lifted a hand and traced her fingers along his lower lip. "That's what I'm used to," she teased.
"We should… We should probably talk—"
"—later. There'll be time." Layla took a step back and raised an eyebrow. "Promise you won't disappear on me again?"
Marc set his hands on his waist, pressing the tip of his tongue to the inside of his cheek. "I'll try not to. How about that?"
Layla mirrored him, tipping up her chin. "Okay."
But before she could move down the street, Steven lurched forward and slid his hand up her back. He wasn't thinking, clearly he wasn't thinking, of course he wasn't thinking. He also wasn't breathing, oh he couldn't breathe. Hoisting Layla close, Steven kissed her. Unlike their first kiss, they fit together more comfortably. Though still nervous, he was able to move rather than be frozen and overwhelmed. For a moment, he wondered if Layla knew, but that thought soon scurried out of his head when she lightly touched his neck and kissed him back. She was gentle, caring, and, huh, there was her tongue—
Layla pulled back and pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Hello, Steven," she whispered.
He broke into a smile and lowered his hands to rest at his sides. "Hello."
One more kiss to the other side of his face, Layla then squeezed his arm. "Watch over Marc, yeah?"
If it was possible to smile more, Steven was soon discovering it. He nodded, feeling a bit like a bobble-head, and knotted his fingers together. "Yeah, alright, yes. I will." Clearing his throat, he straightened his back. "That's what I'm here for."
He had watched as she left down the street, feeling his insides turn to mush and butterflies. Mushy butterflies. Steven felt his fingers being squeezed, and he looked down at his hands. They were folded together, one atop the other, and he held his breath as there were two more squeezes.
"Let's go home," Marc had said, and as they walked, Steven smoothed his thumb along his knuckles and hummed.
When Steven didn't work, Marc would walk around the city. He never did anything that extravagant, but he did want to learn more about the place Steven called home.
There were a number of parks he particularly enjoyed. A few he had found because he just kept walking some days, curious to see where his legs were leading him. It appeared Steven got out more than he assumed—receiving greetings and smiles from seemingly strangers took him off guard, at first.
"Hey, Steven!"
"Where you been, yeah?"
"Afternoon!"
"You alright?"
Marc wasn't used to being a friendly face, but he took it in stride, smiling back and doing his best Steven impression. It was endearing to see this part of Steven's life.
He often stayed to himself, claiming a park bench as his own. Listening to the people bustling around him, the children running and shouting, the splashes from the ducks in the nearby pond, Marc didn't know if he'd ever find quiet in this noisy city. Nothing could compare to the quiet and stillness of the Field of Reeds.
A duck walked toward him, softly quacking. Marc narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips. "What do you want?"
It blinked and ruffled its wings. A quack.
"You think I got something for you?"
Another one.
Marc reached next to him and picked up a plastic bag. He opened it, and the duck stepped closer. Pausing, Marc watched it. The duck seemed to look between the bag, his hand halfway inside, and Marc. Another quack.
Marc laughed and took out a grape. He placed it in the center of his palm and carefully extended his arm. The duck, knowing the routine, waddled over and plucked the chopped grape from his hand. He smiled again as the duck contently ate the fruit and faced him for more. Ahead of them, another duck emerged from the pond and began to walk over.
"Back here again?" Steven asked. Marc could hear the grin in his voice.
He grabbed a couple more grapes from the bag. Passing one to the duck in front of him, he turned the second over between his fingers and waited for the other duck to arrive. "Is that even a question?"
Laughter. It made Marc's chest feel warm, full.
No, he wouldn't find quiet in the city, but he could find peace.
Let. Me. Out.
The shouting, the anger, the need to breathe. It came from Marc's chest.
He jerked, snapping his eyes open and staring up at the dark wood above his bed. Fighting to steady his breathing, he smoothed his hands down his face. Just a dream, just a dream, it was only a dream. Nothing could hurt him here.
"Marc? You okay?"
He cleared his throat and nodded. "Mhm, yeah. I am. Go back to bed, Steven."
"Oh goodness, bad dream, was it?" Steven touched his face again, and Marc closed his eyes. He wiped the spaces under his eyes, along his cheekbones, and pulled at the collar of his shirt to get a breeze going. "Come on," he started, and Steven sat up.
Marc shook his head and laid back down. "I'm fine," he said. "Just need to get back—"
"—Marc, come on—"
"—to sleep. That's all I need—"
"—let me… let me…"
"Steven," Marc spat, gathering the blankets into his fists. "I said I'm fine." He flopped onto his side and pulled his legs to his chest. He narrowed his eyes at the space in front of him, the back of his neck prickling. It was like he was being watched, but he was the only one in the room. They hadn't even gotten a mirror yet.
"Marc…"
He closed his eyes. "What?"
"The, um, ankle cuff?"
At that, Marc opened his eyes and pushed himself up. He couldn't feel the restraint around his ankle, and there hadn't been a rattle when he moved in bed. For God's sake, he was practically curled in on himself and he hadn't noticed.
There it was, dangling from the post, unused, unbothered. Marc wet his lips and leaned over the side of the bed. The sand appeared undisturbed. "I forgot," he said, looking at the restraint. "Yeah, I forgot before I got into bed." Must have.
"Oh, yeah, alright."
He continued to stare at the post, eyes not quite focusing. He listened to himself breathe, and soon noticed Steven had fronted. "Want me to?" he asked, loosely gesturing to the cuff.
"Yeah," Marc said. "Yeah."
Steven stretched, grunting, and grabbed the restraint. He pushed the blankets away and stuck out his leg, sliding the cuff around his ankle. As Steven yanked on the strap, Marc sucked in a breath. "There we go," Steven mumbled.
Marc settled back in bed, head resting on the corner of a pillow. He rubbed his eyes and tipped his head toward the window. Moving his hands away, he squinted at the night sky. "We should start closing our curtains."
"Right."
Marc glanced at his hands once, twice—his palms were scuffed, broken, bits of dried blood caked on—before lowering them. Furrowing his brow, his heart racing, Marc raised his hands again. Yes, the skin was damaged. He turned his hands over and saw splotches decorating his knuckles.
Marc moved to sit up again, but as soon as he was upright, he fell back. He was heavy, felt like he was melted to the bed, and his hands dropped to his chest. Marc tried to breathe, a few deep breaths, and his eyes shut.
He was still.
And then his eyes opened. It was morning.
Carefully, without rising from the bed, Marc looked around the room. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, though the uneasy feeling that sunk in his stomach remained. He slowly moved, brushing off the blanket, and stared at his hands.
They were clean. No scrapes or scuffs. No bruises across his knuckles. Like the bruise Steven had thought he saw, they were simply gone—just a spot of dirt washed away or remnants of a dream lingering upon the first moments of waking. That was it.
"Marc?" said Steven.
"Yeah?" Marc flexed his fingers and moved to undo the ankle restraint. He tossed it aside, the object striking the post before falling to its usual place.
"Are you—"
"—yes, don't worry about it, Steven." He got out of bed and stepped over the ring of sand. Biting the inside of his cheek, he shook his head. "Thank you for asking. Checking in." He wrung his hands and shrugged. "I appreciate it."
Steven was quiet for a while, letting Marc start their morning routine. Halfway through pouring a bowl of the latest sugary cereal Steven was obsessed with, he piped up. "I could do more," he said. "I mean, you're welcome, of course. I'm happy to check in." On the way to sit down, Marc spied Steven in the toaster. He wasn't looking at him, and was instead squeezing his fingers and pulling on his sleeves. "But I could, I can do more. Like you do. If you'll have… me?" Steven squeezed his eyes closed and scrunched his nose. "No, no, that wasn't, um."
Marc sat down and lightly kicked off, having the chair roll toward the fish tank. If he'd have Steven? Out of the corner of his eye, Steven still fidgeted with his sleeves and avoided his attention. Gus 2 and Gus 3 swam through his reflection, content. If he'd have Steven? Marc stared into the bowl and grabbed his spoon. He planted his elbow on the armrest, tapping his thumb against the bowl, and cleared his throat. "Finish your thought," he said.
Again, Steven was quiet. He looked at Marc, though, eyes narrowed suspiciously, coyly. "If you'll have… let me take care of you." Sighing, Steven waved a hand. "Like you take care of me," he added.
The edge of the spoon dug into Marc's thumb. He glanced at the cereal, quickly becoming soggy in the milk, and slowly started to nod. "How?" Marc crossed his legs, looking back at Steven. "How would you do that?" he asked, strained, hesitant. He swallowed and curled his thumb, letting the spoon press deeper into his skin.
Steven blinked a few times, picking at a fingernail. "Well, I'm not quite sure yet."
Marc rubbed his nose and tugged at the collar of his shirt.
"I just know that I'd like to."
He picked up the spoon again, wrapping slightly trembling fingers around the utensil.
"Maybe you could tell me how."
Marc shoveled some cereal into his mouth, spinning in the chair. "You're going to be late for work."
He jolted, and Steven sputtered, "Bollocks." Chewing, he wiped his chin with the back of his hand. "This is a tour day, too. Look at that. Shit, we must have overslept."
Steven scrambled around the flat, and Marc watched him as he passed by numerous reflective surfaces, flustered, muttering, hair a mess of flyaway curls.
Maybe Marc was a hypocrite for not wanting to give Steven that much control and yet expecting him to do the very same. Steven wanted that responsibility, though, and God, didn't it sound nice to hand it to him?
"You're thinking too much," said Steven, knocking his hip into the desk. "Making my head go all fuzzy." He fumbled with the locks on the door.
"Sorry."
"No, you're good. Don't think it's your fault." Steven adjusted his bag on his shoulder and slipped out the door.
Marc felt a tug in his chest and the back of his neck tingled. Wait a sec. "Tape."
"Huh, what? Tape?"
"Nothing. Go to work."
Every Friday night, after the particularly grueling double shift of being gift shopist and tour guide, Steven liked to grab a late dinner at his favorite vegan food truck. He had nearly sampled everything on the menu, in an attempt to sway Marc's taste buds.
"I told you, I'm getting used to the stuff," Marc said, in between bites.
Steven wiped his mouth and waved his hand, parts of his wrap falling onto the pavement. "I'm not stopping until it'll be your first choice."
A woman passed him, giving a quick look. Steven frowned and adjusted his headphones. "On the phone," he tried, and she offered a placating smile before hurrying around the corner.
"The point of this is not having to explain yourself," Marc said, the smile in his tone apparent.
Steven took another bite. "I don't like it when people stare."
"Ignore them."
"Bah." He wrinkled his nose and shook his head.
"Did you just 'bah' me?"
Steven hummed and crumpled the package for the wrap, rolling it into a ball. "I've got a question. Have you been taking us out on nightly strolls again?"
"Excuse me?"
"I've been so bloody tired lately. It's almost like—" Steven frowned. He leaned over and tossed his trash in the bin. "You know what I mean." Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned for home.
"I haven't, Steven. Believe me. I wouldn't. I have no need to."
Steven chewed on his lip and tilted his head back. Stars twinkling, a waxing crescent hovered above him. "Yeah," he mumbled.
"Hey. On your right."
Steven looked away and to his right, catching the storefront of a florist's. The shop, probably, wasn't important. What was, was Marc staring at him through the glass. Hands on his hips, shoulders back, he matched Steven's frown. Steven stopped in his tracks, thankful for a less busy crowd at this time of night, and watched him.
"I haven't," Marc repeated. "Like I said, I have no need to."
He walked over, his fingers curling and uncurling into his pockets. "Yeah, alright. I hear you." Steven peered into the shop, staring at the bundles of roses and tulips in the display. "I just, like, don't know if this is… abnormal or whatever." He looked at Marc. "Have you been feeling the same?"
Marc folded his arms over his chest, cocking his head to the side. "A bit. Might be nothing if it's the both of us."
Steven absently nodded, lifting a hand and touching the glass. He leaned against it as he returned to staring at the flowers. "Actually, yeah, that makes sense. I think." He narrowed his eyes and shrugged. "What do I know?" he sighed.
Bowing his head, Marc shuffled in his place. Steven pursed his lips and tried to look around him, spotting carnations, dahlias, and a small batch of forget-me-nots, ironically, stashed in the corner. He tapped his index finger against the glass. "What do you typically do, then?" he asked. "At night, when I'm sleeping."
"I sleep, too," Marc said.
Steven looked back at him, and if there weren't a few inches of glass between them—among other practicalities—they would be touching, nose-to-nose. Holding his breath, Steven pressed his fingertips a bit harder into the glass.
Marc added, "With you."
"Do you miss it?" Steven said, words tumbling out before he could stop himself. "Back there, when I was, when we could… when we were separate?" He shut his eyes, silently chastising himself for not being able to form a bloody coherent sentence in one go. A soft thud, Steven rested his forehead against the glass.
His hand left the glass and touched the side of his neck. Steven opened his eyes and lifted his head, glancing at his hand and Marc. He was nearly a perfect reflection, his own hand cradling his neck. Slowly, Marc dragged his hand up into his hair. Steven's eyes fluttered closed as he felt his fingers curl and scratch.
"Yeah," Marc said. "I do."
Steven swallowed, and, then, moved his hand himself, tracing his jaw, the edge of his lower lip with his thumb. His heart pounded in his chest, and he molded his fingers into a tight fist. "Me too," he whispered, lips against his skin.
Marc closed his eyes and rubbed the pads of his fingers along his mouth, a slow, deep gesture. He inhaled, and Steven did, too. "We should get home," he said, opening his eyes. "You've been loitering here for too long."
"Right," Steven said, nodding, reluctant to remove his hand from his lips. Carefully, Marc walked him backward, and Steven nodded again, a bit more firmly, and moved to restart his walk. He kept his hands in his pockets, still balled into fists.
Later that night, after Steven locked and taped the door, filled in the sand, and fastened the ankle restraint, he held the bed covers close to his chest. He buried his face in the blankets, breathing in familiarity. And if he thought hard enough, Steven could almost feel the bed dip behind him, as if he was joined by another. An arm slid around his waist, a palm to his lower abdomen, he was cradled.
"Marc," he muttered, not daring to lift his head from the covers.
He didn't receive a verbal response, but his hand pressed to the inside of his thigh. Toes curling so hard they cracked, Steven attempted to sleep with that steady pressure.
It didn't have to be very fancy. Just a simple one that could be placed on the nightstand. Did the size matter?
Marc sighed noisily, staring at the selection of mirrors in front of him. For once, he was thankful the reflection that was looking back at him was his own. He set his hands on his hips and walked down the aisle. Circular mirrors were nice, but they didn't always capture everything.
Honestly, it was a surprise they hadn't broken down and bought a mirror sooner. Steven's quiet suggestion came weeks ago, and even that seemed too late. Then again, they might not have been ready to have one placed so close to the bed. While they were able to communicate as seamlessly as they could nowadays, seeing each other was another matter.
More intimate.
Marc stopped in front of a shelf, a decorative mirror catching his eye. He carefully touched it, angling it this way and that. Several inches long and wide, it wasn't so large that it would look ridiculous on the nightstand. Marc clenched his jaw. Tapping his thumb against the mirror, he felt—saw—his cheeks redden. He swallowed his embarrassment and looked away, picking up the mirror.
He couldn't rationalize the purchase with any pure terms. There was nothing pure about why he was indulging Steven's request. But Marc wanted it, too. Hell, it was deeper than that. He ached to indulge him.
Marc glanced back at the mirror. He only saw himself, his downturned expression. "This is fine," he told himself. "It's okay."
For a flicker of a moment, Marc watched as the reflection appeared to halfheartedly shrug and tipped his head in a half-nod. Marc blinked, widening his eyes, and adjusted his grip on the mirror. "Steven?" he asked. The reflection did the same, a perfect match. Marc held the mirror closer, angling it some more, but no, everything was the same.
It was just him.
"Trick of the light," Marc mumbled, and Mirror-Marc did the same.
Still, he didn't linger in the store for much longer, an uneasiness clinging to his skin. It was nearing closing time, and he hadn't figured out what he and Steven could have for dinner yet. It was almost nice to be concerned about such trivial things.
Marc couldn't shake the growing dread that pressed down on his chest as he walked home. He tried to focus on the weight of the plastic bag in his hands, the chilly night air. There was no reason for him to feel this way, and yet he glanced at each reflective surface he passed, checking, ensuring that he only saw himself looking back.
"Steven?" he muttered, after the thirteenth such glance. "You think you could take the reins?"
He was met with silence, not even a pip of recognition. Marc tapped his thumb against the bag handle, looking over his shoulder. "Steven?" he repeated, trailing off, narrowing his eyes as he saw two men duck into a nearby alley. They were tall, dark-clothed, and laughing amongst themselves. Marc grimaced and shook his head.
"Stevie—?" he tried, throat tightening before he could finish. Marc wrinkled his nose, lifted a hand to touch his chest, his throat, and found himself turning back around. It was getting harder to breathe, as if something was pushing in on him, pushing and pulling, smothering and escaping.
Marc stumbled, rolling his ankle, and gasped. He heard glass breaking, and then nothing.
Until there were shouts.
Marc shuddered, sucking in a quick breath, and looked at the man in front of him. Eyes wide, tearful, he wept at Marc.
"Please, please."
Warm liquid dripped down his wrist. Marc tightly pressed his lips together and looked down. In his hands, he gripped a knife. The blade was several inches in the man's abdomen. A shiver ran down Marc's spine, and he stared back at the man. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry, I don't—"
There was a quick flash, his vision going fuzzy. Marc could hear more shouting, and feel a sharp pain in his side and right behind his eyes. He squeezed them closed, trying to quell the pressure.
Steven opened his eyes, and found himself in the center of a sidewalk.
He frowned and looked around at the sleeping city. The only other people that were out were drunks trying to reach their next stops. Steven raised a hand and furiously scratched his head. "Fucking—Marc," he mumbled. "You told me you didn't do this anymore," he said and glanced down, finally noticing the plastic bag he was holding.
Steven carefully opened the bag, squinting, and saw there was a mirror inside. Despite his frustration, Steven felt a smile growing. He attempted to stifle it and reached a hand inside the bag. Touching the edge of the mirror, Steven pulled it away from the bag. Immediately, he scoffed, seeing that it was cracked. Two large cracks ran across the surface, creating three panels, three disjointed reflections of Steven.
"Marc," he breathed, shaking his head.
His reflection stared back at him, frowning. Steven lifted a hand, absently touching his own mouth. Mirror-Him remained the same—if anything, he looked mildly annoyed.
Steven furrowed his brow and opened and closed his mouth, sputtering. "Excuse me?"
He didn't know what his response was. There was a rush of something closing over his eyes, his nose, and mouth. Clawing at his chest, no, inside his ribs, shaking, teetering.
And he woke up in bed.
Steven inhaled sharply, his hands finding his chest. He clutched his sweat-soaked shirt and sat up. Early morning light streamed into the flat, and he could hear chirps from outside the window.
He dragged his fingers along his necklace, roughly swallowing. "Marc?" Steven wet his lips and quickly blinked, his eyes starting to sting. "Marc."
"Steven," he said, wiping at his eyes. "Sorry."
"What are you apologizing for?"
"This is me." Marc gestured at his face and huffed out a laugh.
Steven nodded. "Right, okay, I was worried I was the one crying." He turned in bed, moving his legs. The ankle cuff dug into his skin. "I don't… quite know…" Steven looked to the nightstand and was greeted with the mirror. It was no longer broken, and he stared at an equally flustered Marc. "That, that was broken."
"Broken?" Marc asked. "No, I bought that yesterday."
"Yesterday?"
"At least I think it was yesterday." Marc rubbed his face and held his hands there. "Fuck, Steven, I don't know what happened."
"It was broken for me," Steven said, getting on his hands and knees and crawling closer to the nightstand. He stretched out a hand and lightly traced his finger across the surface. "Right here… and here."
Marc dropped his hands and looked ahead, eyes heavy. "I don't know what happened," he repeated. "I think I blacked out."
Steven sat back down, tucking his hands into his lap. "Last I remember, I was in the middle of the street. Night time. All alone." He pointed at the mirror. "With this thing broken in a bag I was holding. That wasn't you?"
He loosely shrugged, still staring off into space. "No, I mean, yeah, I did go out and buy us a mirror when you were out of commission, but it wasn't." He frowned and shook his head. "It wasn't in the middle of the night. More like eight o'clock."
"Last night?"
Marc chewed on the inside of his cheek. He pulled on the leg of his pajama pants. Again, he shrugged and looked down.
Steven tapped his fingers against his knees. He found it hard to stare at Marc, the dejected expression on his face making his chest tighten. "Hold on," he said, lightly smacking his thigh. "Let me just…" Steven twisted in bed and leaned over to snatch his phone. He held it close to his face, tapping at the screen. "Alright, it's four-twenty-three on… Thursday?" Frowning, he slowly started to shake his head.
"Thursday," said Steven and Marc. "That can't be right."
"I remember it being Monday yesterday."
"Bloody Christ, have I not been to work?" Steven spat, hurriedly running his fingers through his hair. "Nope, no, no, no," he mumbled and went to click through his messages and emails.
Marc held his head in his hands, pressing his palms to his eyes. "Steven, I'm so sorry."
Steven stuck his thumb in his mouth, absently gnawing at the skin around the nail. There were no text messages to Donna, but there were several emails in his Sent mailbox. He shook his head again and held his phone closer. "I've… sent emails? One on Tuesday… and again on Wednesday. Yesterday." Steven cleared his throat and rested his own head in his hand. "'To whom it may concern,'" he read, huffing out a small laugh. "Well, I was rather polite. 'I am unable to come into work today, and thus I will be using one of my allotted sick days. I endeavor to be well enough to return to work tomorrow. Cheers, thanks.'"
"Endeavor," Marc mumbled.
"You didn't do this?" Steven asked, glancing at the mirror.
"Do I look like I use 'endeavor' in casual conversations?"
"Maybe when you're trying to be me."
"It wasn't me. You said there was another one yesterday?"
Steven looked back at his phone. "'To whom it may concern, unfortunately, I was mistaken in my prior email. I will be using more of my allotted sick days this week and return on Friday. Thank you for understanding.'" Lowering his phone, he gave a quick smile. "See, if I had sent this, then it would have been filled with requests and waffling. Nothing assertive like this." Steven narrowed his eyes and tapped to his Inbox. He had gotten responses back, but they weren't tetchy or demanding he come into work. That was a consolation.
Steven hummed. "Email said Friday. Today's Thursday. Looks like we still got the day off." He bit his lip, chewing the corner of it. "Wonder why I said Friday."
"We woke up early."
"What?" Steven watched as Marc stared at his hands. Palms facing the ceiling, they rested on his knees. His fingers twitched. Steven swallowed. "What are you on about? We woke up early?"
Marc wrinkled his nose, eyes remaining on his hands. "I told you, I think I blacked out. Yester—Monday—I thought I saw… I felt like I did back in Cairo. When Harrow had that fucking cane in my chest."
"Yeah," Steven breathed. That convulsing, suffocating feeling. He remembered.
"I just had a bad feeling," Marc continued. "I tried to talk to you but you must have been out. I wanted—" He grimaced and shook his head. "There were these two men kinda slinking around. That's when I felt… like that." His frown deepened, and his hands curled into fists. "Next thing I remember, I had a goddamn knife in one of their guts. I don't do that anymore, Steven. I didn't like doing that before. I did what I had to, but now? I don't know what this was."
Slowly, Steven moved in bed. He turned to face Marc, even though he was still reluctant to look back at him. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay."
Marc inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. "There was so much going on. I'm trying to remember, and it's all in pieces." He touched his side, gripping his shirt. Steven blinked as the material rode up his right hip, the small of his back. "I think I got fucking stabbed," said Marc, laughing, as if in disbelief. "Right here." He tightly clutched his shirt. "And I know what it fucking feels like to get stabbed. But there's nothing here. No wound, no mark. Nothing."
In the dim light of the room, Steven watched Marc touch along his side, down the dip of his waist and hip. He could feel the slight breeze and cool touch of his fingertips dragging across skin. Instinctively, Steven reached down, wanting to grab Marc's hand. Instead, he checked the same path Marc went down, and nodded when he similarly felt no abrasions left behind.
Marc looked at Steven and pressed his lips together. Steven swallowed and set his hand back in his lap. "What's the next thing you remember?" he asked.
Marc held up his hands and gestured to the room. "This right here."
"My thing must have happened in between then, somewhere," Steven said. "Because I woke up here after that." He tugged on his earlobe, scrunching his nose. "So, you're suggesting that whoever—or whatever—made you black out in the first place didn't intend for us to come back around until Friday morning?"
Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Two birds chirped at each other.
"I don't know," said Marc.
"Or, or, we just got a buffer day, yeah?" Steven said, raising an eyebrow and offering a smile. "Yeah? You know, a 'just in case you buggers oversleep' or something? I would do that."
Marc looked back at his hands. "Maybe."
Steven's smile faltered. He scratched at his thigh, first soft, then a little deeper, and listened to Marc breathe. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and he rubbed his palms against the bed covers. Steven glanced away. "Since we do have this buffer day, let's just get some more sleep, alright?" He grabbed a handful of the blankets and settled down, reaching behind him to adjust the pillows. "Come on, you budge in here. I think you need it more than me." Steven blinked, and then looked at Marc as he nestled in the bed, pulling the covers closer.
"Thanks," Marc muttered. He turned on his side, away from the mirror, and looked across the room. Eyes burned into the back of his head, and though he knew they belonged to Steven, Marc couldn't bring himself to face him. Not yet.
He held the blankets to his mouth. Back there, with Harrow, they weren't alone. And in the mirror. There was… there was—
"You're thinking too much," Steven said. "Your shoulders are still tense."
Marc squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his grip on the blanket. "Help me."
Carefully, hesitantly, there was the gentle press of fingers into his back. They began at the nape of his neck and traveled downward, or as far as they could with Steven's one-handed massage. Marc rolled his shoulder and felt a hand rest there. Steven worked his fingers into the muscle, his thumb resting on his collarbone. The tension melted under his touch, and Marc sighed, turning more into the mattress. He allowed himself to get comfortable, to sink down.
"Harder," he breathed into the corner of his pillow.
There was more pressure from the middle finger, drawing deep circles. Marc moved again, his hips brushing against the bed covers. He paused briefly, before bending his leg and laying fully on his stomach.
"Like that?" Steven whispered.
"Yeah," Marc said, bowing his head to bury into the blanket. "Like that."
The days that followed passed without incident. Even Steven's return to work wasn't questioned. He went on with his shifts like normal.
Steven couldn't quite forget the look on Marc's face, the bone-deep tiredness etched on his features, the remnants of tears still glistening under his eyes.
And the near instantaneous relaxation he received as soon as Steven touched him.
Help me.
If he had just moved a little further down, applied just a bit more pressure—
Steven cleared his throat and rubbed his face. Just a couple more hours of this shift. He nudged the display of jelly treats once, twice, and then snatched a bag. Tearing it open, he shoved one into his mouth. As he chewed, he pulled out his wallet and haphazardly stuck a tenner in the register.
Though Marc hadn't explicitly connected the dots, it was apparent that he believed the thing that led them on their nighttime crusade was the same thing that helped them get the upper hand against Harrow. Steven would also wager it was the same thing that helped Marc track down Ammit's tomb, increasing their body count one by one.
It wasn't a comforting thought, to think there might be someone still buried that neither he nor Marc could control. Or even want to think about, for that matter.
Steven glanced at the mirror next to the register. He bit into another jelly treat and nodded toward his reflection. "You in there?" he mumbled. "That was you the other night, then? Just grimacing and looking annoyed with me?" Shaking his head, Steven finished the treat in his hand. "Marc was like that, in the beginning. Thinking I was the most clueless idiot in the world. But it's not like that anymore. We aren't."
His reflection didn't change, not even for a second. Steven stared at himself, frowning. "Can you even hear me?" he asked, lowering his voice and getting closer to the mirror. "Marc was really freaking out. Do you know that? I mean, I was, too, but I think I can handle it. Maybe." He tightened his hold on the treat packaging. "Look, I may just be blabbering, I get it, but it needs to be said. Lay off. Back off. Just for a bit."
He sighed. "Sorry, sorry. That was rude, wasn't it? You're probably just… trying your best to, to." Steven bit the inside of his cheek and folded the package. "To something. Protect us?" He looked at the mirror, still seeing himself. "We don't need protection anymore. Marc takes care of me, and. And I take care of him." Steven roughly swallowed and touched the corner of the register. He rubbed at a scuff.
If Steven was attempting to blabber to the thing that helped Marc in Cairo, that helped stop Harrow, and, potentially, took down those men Marc had seen… it had all been for protection, hadn't it?
"We don't need it anymore," he mumbled. Steven set the snacks aside and patted his pockets. He fished out his phone and leaned against the counter. Without a second thought, Steven found himself opening a new Google search. As his fingers typed, he felt his breath quicken.
Several dead at Sienkiewicz Psychiatric Hospital. Patient taken, presumed dead.
"No," Steven whispered. "No, no, no." He squinted and shook his head, clicking on article after article. "This was… bloody months ago." He scratched at his forehead and looked at the mirror. Again, he only saw himself, his wide eyes and mouth agape. "Why did you, why—"
He set his phone down and cradled his face in his hands. He furiously rubbed at his eyes and tried to slowly breathe. "Oh, God."
"Steven," Marc said. "What—"
"Take it, take over, read this," he said, words stumbling out.
Marc nodded and stood up straight. "Okay, okay. Breathe for me." He looked around, spying a couple with their kid by a shelf. While the pair focused on the art prints, the kid squeezed a scarab plush in their hands. Marc sniffed and angled the phone back to him. He scrolled through Steven's Google search, and slowly, a chill creeped down his spine. His grip tightened on the device.
"He's dead," said Marc. "He's dead."
It might have been paranoia, the dread that circled the pit of his stomach, but Marc knew who had done this—or rather who led to it. He had told him to kill Harrow himself.
"That fucking pigeon," Steven said.
"I'm gonna be sick," Mark said.
"Ah, no, no need, I'll just—" Steven stuffed his phone into his pocket and cleared his throat. There was a twinge of nausea still in the back of his throat. He raised his brows and smiled at the family approaching the counter. "Hello, ready to ring up?" Steven pointed at the kid, slightly leaning forward. "Excellent choice. I keep telling myself I need to get one of those."
Steven tried to concentrate on scanning the family's items, as Marc continued to chatter in the mirror.
"Khonshu said he'd release us. That manipulative asshole lied to me. Lied to us. Does he think he can just—oh, he's the fucking worm. The parasite. He probably thinks we're idiots. Taking this long to figure out what he's doing."
"W-Would you like a pack?" Steven asked, dangling a bag of the jelly treats in front of the child. They eagerly snatched them before the parents could protest. He grinned and added that to their total.
"How many times have we blacked out and we didn't notice? The bruises, the blood. God, that night I woke up without the restraint and blood on my hands."
Steven froze, arm briefly faltering as he handed the bag of goodies to the parents. He tried to rebound, smiling widely. "Thanks, have a good rest of your evening."
"He didn't even tape the door back."
Gripping the edges of the register, Steven watched the family leave the gift shop. "He?" he asked. "I was saying thing. Might be more proper to say he, then?" He snuck a glance at Marc, who was concentrating on his hands. He turned them over and picked at a nail. Steven chewed on his lip and tapped his knuckles against the counter. "You didn't tell me about the blood," he whispered. Again, he looked to the mirror. Marc folded his arms over his chest and stared at Steven. Jaw clenched, he tipped up his chin. It was almost like a challenge: Marc daring Steven to question his actions.
And Steven took it.
"I don't need you to protect me anymore," he mumbled. "I thought we settled this. I even tried to tell Other-Us that we didn't need protection. That we… took care of each other." Steven watched Marc, his stony expression melting. He lowered his arms, and Steven looked away. "Suppose that was a lie?"
"Steven—"
"No, I don't want to hear it right now." He rubbed his face and shook his head. "I just want to finish my shift and for the next thing out of your mouth to be an apology."
"I—"
"I'm not going to think it's sincere if you say it now." Steven frowned at Marc, who mirrored him. "Alright?"
Marc nodded and bowed his head. Steven studied him for a moment longer, absently curling and uncurling his fingers. He nodded, too, and went to tidy the shelves.
Hours later, when Steven walked out of the museum, his left hand squeezed his right shoulder. He continued to walk, holding his breath as he looked at his hand.
"Let me," Marc started, and Steven did. Rolling his shoulders, Marc adjusted his grip on his bag. "Can you… blip out for a few? Until we get home?"
"Trying to surprise me?" Steven asked, and Marc felt butterflies in his stomach.
Marc swallowed and sniffed. "Can you? Please?"
Steven squeezed at his fingers, and Marc sighed, breath hitching.
Steven was right. There was no reason for Marc to be protecting him like he had been. He could still protect him, but there was no need to keep Steven in the dark anymore, especially when they had another occupant on their radar. Truth be told, was this even a new development? This was on their radar back in Cairo. They were now just in… less denial.
Did Marc want to go diving deeper, to figure out who this Other-Us was? It might help in the long run.
But his and Steven's lives since returning from Cairo had been good. Even if there were parts they didn't remember or were aware of, what he knew happened, was good. They were adjusting, and it was good.
"Without looking, chocolate, vanilla, or red velvet?" Marc asked.
"Well, now I'm curious."
"Steven."
"Red velvet."
As long as there were no more slip-ups, interferences, black outs, anything that took away from his and Steven's lives, things would be fine.
Right? Is that how it worked?
Door kicked closed and his bag slid across the floor, Marc went into the kitchen. He set the shopping bag on the counter and searched for a clean plate.
"Can I—"
"—No."
"Yeah, alright."
Marc pulled out the small red velvet cake he bought and cut a piece to place on the plate. He poured a glass of wine and carefully carried both the plate and wine to the coffee table. Returning to the kitchen, Marc removed the couple of red roses from the bag, thankful they hadn't been smashed on the walk home. He laid them in front of the plate, and before he sat down on the couch, grabbed the mirror from the nightstand. Angling it, he attempted to capture the whole display. Slowly, he moved his hands away from the mirror and rubbed at his knuckles. "Okay," he sighed. "Okay, yeah. You can pop in."
Steven's surprised face almost immediately appeared in the mirror. He stared at the cake, the flowers, and laughed. "Marc, really? A verbal apology would have done."
"Hey, I wanted to do this."
"Oh, you even got roses. Such a softie."
"It's classic."
"Yes, look at you." Steven grinned, face still lit up. "Classic romantic."
Marc closed his eyes and scratched the back of his wrist. "Steven, I'm sorry for still trying to protect you after all we've been through. It's not fair to you." He looked at Steven, the smile gone from his face and replaced with a more serious expression. "I'm sorry."
Steven wet his lips and glanced away, a bit sheepish. "I don't mind you still protecting me, you know? It just can't be like how it used to be. Things have changed."
"We can't go back."
Steven nodded. "Right." He slotted his fingers together and squeezed. Marc swore he could feel the pressure on his own hands. "And it's not a one-way street deal. Like I've told you, I want to be a part of this. To protect you, to take care of you, to-to help you."
Marc pressed his palms together, watching Steven. "You already do," he said.
"I want to do more," whispered Steven. "Just tell me how and I'll do it, Marc."
There were many things he wanted Steven to do, and even more that he wanted to do to Steven. But he held his tongue and stared at Steven, fighting back the urge to just say touch me touch me touch me. He slowly breathed in, and Steven did the same, his shoulders rising and falling. Marc rubbed his hands against his thighs, Steven's eyes bouncing between his face and hands, and thought it was a bit cruel how they could no longer touch.
"Eat your cake," Marc said. "You picked it out."
In the split second it took Steven to front, Marc felt a rush to his head, to his chest. It made it hard to breathe. It made him want to act, to do something. He held his hand to his chest, his heart beating against his fingers, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was watching from the mirror. That was it, wasn't it? How much Steven wanted to do more?
Steven lowered the hand from his chest and cleared his throat. He picked up the fork and stared at the piece of cake. "It has sprinkles," he mumbled.
Marc attempted to smile, and he nodded. "Yeah, buddy. I got sprinkles. You like them."
Twirling the fork between his fingers, Steven gave a small smile, too. He could still feel his heartbeat and the tightness in his chest. Steven wished he could reach into the mirror and, and—
It was so cruel they could no longer touch.
Steven cut into the cake and took a bite. He hummed and shut his eyes. Warm, soft, delicate. Marc watched Steven eat, his arm propped up on his knee and chin cradled in his palm.
They were quiet, just the gentle clings of silverware on the plate and the glass of wine being placed back on the table. Marc's stare never wavered from Steven.
He reached up and pulled at the collar of his shirt, then his shirt sleeve. "I suppose," Steven started, "the question now is… if we do… anything about Other-Us." Marc narrowed his eyes, and Steven shrugged. "I don't know what that would be, or what that would drag us into, or if we would even want that—"
"—I don't think I do," Marc said, settling back against the couch. He set his hands on his thighs and shook his head. "I was serious when I told Khonshu to release us. And as far as I'm concerned, we are."
Steven furrowed his brow and looked down at the fork. He traced the edge with his thumb. "Is that, is that how it works?" he asked quietly.
Marc huffed out a breath. "It was up until Other-Us got sloppy."
"Why do you think that is? He's been quite good at being sneaky for a while. Is it, like, stress or, or more serious things happening?" Steven frowned.
Marc mumbled, "I don't know."
"Maybe he wants to be caught," Steven said, just as soft. "To be known. I think he's angry we didn't save him from the Duat."
"I felt that, too, but that might have… complicated things."
Steven lifted a piece of cake to his lips. "I don't know how to help him."
Marc frowned and leaned forward. "Hey, don't think about that. Look at me. Don't." He wrinkled his nose. "All I know is that I want you to be safe, Steven, and for us to live our lives the way we have been. I was happy. Very happy, in fact."
"I was happy, too," he whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, good. Yeah."
Steven ate another bite of cake, watching Marc. He slowly reclined, his head resting on the back of the couch. The prongs of the fork pressed against Steven's lower lip as he chewed and gawked. "Good," he repeated. "Do you want a bit of this?"
Marc spread his legs and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's for you, Steven," he said, tilting his head to look at him.
"Right." Steven lowered his gaze, an agonizing stretch from Marc's chest to his thighs, and stabbed the cake again.
When he finished, Steven gingerly picked up the roses and held them to his face. He breathed in, finding himself smiling. "These should go in some water."
Marc stood, grabbing the plate and empty wine glass. "Let me," he said. "I'll take care of it."
Steven watched, in each reflective surface Marc passed, as he took care of it. He set the empty dishes in the sink and found a large glass for a makeshift vase. Marc positioned it on the counter, near the window, and attempted to arrange the flowers into something aesthetically pleasing. It was a task in itself, with only two roses to move around.
"Thank you," Steven said. "I appreciate all the gestures and the apology."
Marc picked up the mirror and went to return it to the nightstand. "I meant every word." He sat on the bed, crawling to their usual spot, and glanced in the mirror. He saw Steven sitting cross-legged on the bed, a soft smile on his face. Marc relaxed a bit, his fists digging into the mattress loosening. He placed his hands in his lap and stretched out his legs.
For several moments, he and Steven studied each other. Marc didn't feel scrutinized or as if Steven was waiting for something. He was simply staring, still with that fond, little smile. And there it was again, that need to act.
What was it Steven asked all those weeks ago? If he missed when they were separate?
That was a loaded question.
He looked away and roughly swallowed. Furrowing his brow, his eyes settled on the ankle cuff dangling on the post. Marc glanced down and began to take off his shoes. "When we came back from Cairo, did you start restraining us again?"
"No," Steven said, shaking his head. He picked at his nails, frowning. "I didn't. I thought that was you."
Marc tossed his shoes onto the floor, over the ring of sand, and rubbed his hands through his hair. "It wasn't."
"And the door locks…?"
He shook his head, too, and fell back on the bed. He scratched at his forehead, into his hair. There was a slight breeze across his cheek, making him shiver. Marc lowered his hands, and his eyes slid closed as he felt a ghost of a touch, of fingertips walking down his face.
"Can you feel that?"
Marc laid his hands against the bed covers. "Yeah."
"It's okay," Steven said. "We're okay. We've been fine."
Along his jawline now, Marc rolled his head to follow the sensation. His toes curled. It traveled over his chin and just up to his lips. Marc sighed, opened his eyes, and looked over at the mirror. Steven, still sitting up, had his hand raised to his mouth. His eyes heavy-lidded, he pulled at his bottom lip, and Marc felt the pressure on his own. He lifted a hand to touch his mouth.
"You can relax now. For a bit."
Marc lazily nodded. "Yeah."
"You said you wanted us to live our lives the way we have been."
Marc curled his fingers and lowered his hand, letting it rest against his neck. "I did say that."
Steven pressed his hand to his neck, too, and skimmed his thumb along his skin. Marc bent his legs, pointing his knees at the ceiling. Steven took a steadying breath and closed his eyes. "I don't know if I want that, Marc."
He frowned and dug his nails into the side of his neck. "Steven."
"I want things to be different." Steven glanced at Marc. "Well, more different."
His heart was racing. He wanted to leap out of his skin. Marc sat up and turned fully to the mirror. "Steven," he repeated.
"Can it be different?" he asked, touching the buttons on his shirt. Marc watched as Steven fumbled with the buttons and untucked the shirt. He gripped the bed covers and forced himself to look back at his face. Steven shrugged out of the shirt, and Marc squeezed his eyes closed.
He rubbed his palm against the bed covers, smoothing out the wrinkles he made. "What are you talking about?" he asked. Marc concentrated on the covers, tightly pressing his lips together. "Different? I don't, I don't know what you mean."
"Good different. At least I hope so."
His throat was dry. Marc patted his hand against his thigh and breathed in. He lifted his head, but didn't dare to look in the mirror. "Good different," he said quietly. Marc laid back down and pushed his hair back, threading his fingers through the curls. As he stared at the ceiling, he tightened his grip.
Good different good different, he wanted more.
Marc closed his eyes again, wetting his lips. "I want that, too," he said. "Now that I'm thinking about it."
"Want what exactly?"
"What you said."
"I need you to be specific, Marc."
Sighing, Marc lowered his hands and narrowed his eyes toward the ceiling. "More, Steven. What you fucking said. I want more. I've wanted more. I just." He stopped, frowning, and tapped his fingers against his chest. "I don't know," he muttered.
There was that touch to his face again, the careful caress. Marc's breath hitched in his throat, and he stiffened.
"Hey, hey."
Marc looked to the mirror, then, and nearly melted at the expression on Steven's face. Soft features, kind eyes, but there was a glint of something behind them. He was reclining on his side, elbow propping himself up, with his other hand dragging along his face.
"Help me," Marc said before he could think. He lowered his own hands to unbutton his shirt. "Take care of me, fucking touch me."
"Touch you—" Steven breathed.
"—like all those times I've touched you," Marc said, pushing himself up. He slid his shirt off and tossed it aside. "Except don't stop." His head was spinning. He met Steven's wide, eager eyes. "Don't you fucking stop."
If there were two separate beings, Steven might have taken this chance to leap at Marc. He may have settled between Marc's legs, yanking them around his waist, and kissed him. Rough, biting, like fire, they might kiss and let their hands roam of their own accord. It may feel familiar, like all those times they couldn't stop touching in the Duat. It may feel like home.
Instead, Marc and Steven both scrambled to finish undressing. Clothes kicked to the floor, bed covers wrinkled from heels digging in, Marc gasped when his hands cradled his face, no longer his own. His fingers traced along his lips, dipping into his mouth. He brushed his tongue against them.
"There you go," Steven mumbled. He led his other hand down his chest, rubbing the pad of his thumb against a nipple. "Spit?"
Popping the fingers out of his mouth, Marc raised his head and spit into his palm.
"Good, good."
Marc closed his eyes and groaned, Steven dragging his hand along the underside of his cock. His touch was warm and a sliver uncertain as he wrapped his fingers around him. Marc tilted his head and looked in the mirror, taking in Steven's flushed face. "Is this your first time?" Marc lightly teased.
Steven shot him a look and tightened his grip. Marc shivered. "Having a wank? No, of course not."
"That's not—"
"—Yeah, yeah, I know." Steven swiped his thumb against the head of his cock, smearing pre-come with spit. "I suppose this isn't just having a wank."
Marc huffed out a breath, smiling. "You're doing good, Steven. Go a bit faster."
"Like that?" His pace quickened, and Steven twisted his wrist on the upstroke.
"Oh, yeah. That's good." Marc spread his legs, canting his hips. "Keep doing that."
"Look at me. Please."
Marc smiled a little wider and stared at Steven. "Want me to watch you get me off? Does that help you?"
"Yes." Steven squeezed, and Marc edged his hips forward. "Yes, it does. Look at me, Marc. God, you're a sight."
Marc felt his cheeks redden, and he was sure he was a perfect replication of Steven's own fluster. His smile faltered, and he squirmed. "Am I?" he breathed.
"Beautiful. Gorgeous."
"Keep doing that, baby."
"Touching you or complimenting you?"
"Both."
Steven lifted his other hand back to Marc's lips, and Marc hollowed his cheeks before spitting into his palm. He lowered his hand and spread more spit against his cock. "I've thought about this for ages, Marc," whispered Steven. "You gripped my bloody thigh. Who does that?"
Marc laughed. "I'm such an asshole, huh?"
"You're perfect," Steven said. "Perfect."
Marc bit back a moan, sucking in a breath. "Steven. Just. Keep your hand still. Let me fuck you."
Steven groaned and nodded frantically. "Fuck me, Marc, please."
With one hand on the bed covers, Marc thrusted into his other, Steven's grip slick. The friction, the right amount of pressure, Marc felt like he could sink into the mattress. He kept his eyes on Steven's face, his pink cheeks and parted lips. "I wish I could," Marc started, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "I wish I could—"
"Me too," Steven whined. "Me too."
Marc came with a shaky thrust into his fist. He rocked and tugged at the bed covers as he moaned. There was a sense of overwhelming relief that washed over him, squeezing at his chest. Marc opened his eyes and looked at Steven on the bed. He smiled at him, a bit lazy, and Steven matched him.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Steven sat up and raised his hand to his lips, lapping at the come that collected on the backs of his fingers. He listened to Marc laugh in the mirror, and he felt his ears burn. Still, he smiled, because how could he not?
He stood on weak legs and searched the floor for his underwear. Plucking them up and shaking sand away, Steven stepped into them. Glancing over his shoulder, Steven saw Marc nestled in bed, covers pulled tight and face half-buried in the pillow. He ached, and he nearly dove back into bed right then.
"Let me take care of things," Steven whispered.
Marc nodded. "I'll be here."
Steven hurried around the flat, their nighttime routine burned into his memory, before crawling under the covers. He glanced in the mirror and tried to fit himself next to Marc. And if he thought hard enough, Steven could almost feel Marc's breath on his lips as he was cradled to sleep.
Steven scrubbed his hands over his face, scratching along his cheeks. "Not that I can't appreciate a man who can grow a full beard," he said, grabbing the shaving cream from the shower shelf, "I just don't prefer it for myself."
Marc hummed, arms crossed.
"You will not make me feel bad." He lathered his face, attempting to avoid Marc's stare. "If you can't stand this, then pop out for a few."
"I just might."
Steven grabbed the razor and quirked a brow. "Do it, then." He adjusted the water's temperature and looked back in the mirror. Only seeing himself, Steven laughed. "Marc, Marc, Marc," he muttered and began to drag the razor down his face.
A couple weeks' worth of facial hair washed down the drain. Steven couldn't understand why Marc let it grow this long, but he couldn't complain too much. This proved to be a soothing activity.
Steven tipped his head to the side and brought the razor down the curve of his jaw. One last swipe. A quick prick. Steven sucked in a breath and lowered the razor. He raised his other hand, pressing his fingers to the skin. "Shit," he mumbled. Steven moved his hand away and saw blood blotting his fingers. He grimaced, looked back in the mirror, and prodded at the nick.
More blood began to pool from the cut, and Steven mashed his thumb against it. "Brilliant," he breathed.
Out of the corner of Steven's eye, his reflection tilted his head. For a moment, he thought it was Marc, ready to chastise and tease him. Though there was a caring look to his face, his features were firmer, harder. Steven widened his eyes and held his breath. He rested his hand on the shower wall and slowly leaned in. They were almost nose-to-nose. The reflection smirked, more entertained than annoyed. Steven blinked several times.
He was gone, and Marc looked back at him, frowning. "Steven, you okay?"
Steven straightened up, wetting his lips. He slid his hand down the wall before lifting it to smooth his fingers across his face, wiping away the last remnants of stubble and shaving cream. There was no blood or cut in sight. He was fine. They were.
"Yeah," Steven said, dropping the razor onto the small shelf. "Trick of the light."
