Opening his eyes Marshall found himself gazing at an arched white ceiling, so clean it was practically sparkling. The view was unlike any Marshall would ever see in his own home, and he knew for sure that he was not back in that wretched hospital room. (As if he could ever fall asleep surrounded by the aroma of dead people.)
Am I... dreaming?
"Well, thanks for getting me all wet." Marshall could feel his face growing feverish upon hearing these words. He jerked himself upright. And proceeded to smack himself in the head. Hard. Like in the cartoons, right before a comically sized bump grew into place. But this wasn't the cartoons, and the pain Marshall felt upon impact was real, and not at all bordering on funny.
Bubba pulled back, wincing as he rubbed his newfound wound. "Jesus, Lee. Maybe next time, a warning could be provided before you smash me about?"
Wording again.
Marshall raised one thick eyebrow, realizing at last what had just happened. There's no way that Bubba's face would have been lowered enough to experience a collision in the first place, unless..."You were watching me sleep?! Do you realize how creepy that is?"
The prince glared at him, still massaging his now bruising forehead.
"You could hardly breathe when you first passed out, and I had to be sure you weren't going to die in the middle of me kitchen floor. Don't mistake my slight concern of hospital fees for infatuation. Besides," he added, looking down at himself, "It's not like you gave me much of a way to move anywhere else."
Marshall gazed at the tile floor, swallowing enough air to fill up both of his cheeks. Certainly, this had not been the coveted scenario when he had dreamed of sleeping with someone in random areas of the house. He scratched his head, unaware that Bubba was still actively watching him, calculating his moves and the way his face furrowed onto itself out of embarrassment. "Yeah, sorry about that."
"Not a problem, I love it when my expensive clothing is drowned in someone else's saliva." Marshall stood up as Bubba did, wiping excess drool from his chin. This marked what, like the tenth time he'd drooled, cried, and or physically assaulted his bed buddy? And they say romance is dead.
"Not just that-also the whole, breakdown thing with me crying and screaming..." The other boy just shrugged his shoulders, dabbing at the wet spot with a paper towel. Marshall felt less panicked, but certainly not mentally or emotionally much better than before. At least this state of mind was more manageable, even if it was just a quieter form of torture.
"Don't mention it, Lee. The panic attacks...you don't really have control over them, yes? And you're breathing okay now. It was kind of a waste of my time, but I'm the one who let you in to begin with." Lee struggled to decipher and unscramble the words in his mind, as it often proved difficult to discover whether Bubba was being condescending, or nice in his own guarded sort of way. Marshall was really stumped this time. He should have brought a spare sheet of paper to work I out. But with the way he was going, he'd likely fail the exam either way.
"I'm going to go change clothes now, it kind of looks like I pissed myself thanks to you. Just stay here, I won't be long."
Marshall wanted to cry out his disapproval at the idea of being alone, but sensed he had already caused enough trouble, and Bubba would only mock him anyways.
Then again, he hadn't pulled his hand away.
It seemed as though hours went by as Marshall waited for his foe to return, and staring at the sink grew to be quite a dull pastime. In Marshall Lee's household, the faucet dripped and leaked no matter how harshly you jerked at the handles, and one could focus on the dripping and fall into rhythm with it, to drown out the sound of crying or your mother guzzling down beer bottles. Bubba's sink was different, well maintained enough that not a drop of extra fluid fell from it, and that got Marshall into thinking about quiet sinks and loud sinks and what it all meant. Of course, the prince would have found such analogies uneducated, but Marshall believed that everything meant something, even if that something seemed insignificant at first glance. And he wondered, as he stared at the clean metallic space, what sort of thing would have to happen to someone to make them believe that the world meant nothing.
He needed to start taking notes, on the words Bubba said and the way he acted. Today especially. Something about his favorite color? It all made Marshall's already sore head even sorer. Something about the thought seemed incomplete, and the more he tried to sort it out, the more annoyed he grew. He'd have to save this all for later. What he really needed, was something for now.
He said he wanted food, right? So maybe I can start something while I wait. Clearly, earlier's bloody cucumbers just weren't going to cut it.(Ironically enough.)
To Marshall, there was something magical about rummaging through other people's kitchens. It told you a lot about someone, about how they lived and what they liked. The downside, of course, was that if you were looking for something in particular you likely had no idea where to find it. Bubba's kitchen counter was so clean and furnished that the Azul Macauba that topped it sparkled with delight. And although the kitchen was beautiful, Marshall found it strange the whole area seemed to have more of a blue theme to it, as blue did not seem to be one of the preppy teen's colors of preference at all. And that was another problem, apparently. The more time he spent in this particular kitchen, the more questions he gathered, questions that would likely never be answered.
Finally Marshall gave up on traditional preparation and selected a bag of barbecue chips. He was probably unworthy of using such expensive kitchen utensils anyways.
A delicate finger tapped his shoulder, and Marshall whirled around so quickly that he spilled chips all over the tidy kitchen tile "Well shit!" he exclaimed, both angry at himself for ruining something once more, as well as in reaction to Bubba's new choice of clothing. He's doing this on purpose to me, isn't he? The tight fabric hugged onto Bubba's hips, cut so high that they probably should have been illegal. Maybe it was, Marshall had little knowledge of his state's particular legalities. But it wasn't as if he'd turn him in for it either way. It was the first time Marshall had seen the prince dressed so informally (unless you consider all the incidents of nudity) yet he still held himself so formally that such simple attire was almost extravagant on him.
Marshall's eyes traveled up and down the long slender legs, all the way up to where the black fabric cut off his vision. Spandex. Of course he'd change into fucking spandex.
"I'll get them!" Marshall shouted, bending himself in order to better pick up pieces of potato. The once clean floor was now scattered with orange leaflets, a poor man's autumn. He was aware of course., of the awkward position which he had placed himself in by bending over repeatedly while the other just...watched. The flusteredness leaked into a more simplistic sort of annoyance.
"Are you going to help me or what?"
Bubba played with a strand of his already perfect hair. (Him and hair.) Apparently not. "You might as well just throw away the rest of the bag too, that over-glorified junk does your body no good."
Marshall rolled his eyes.
"Then why even have them?"
"Angel likes chips."
Angel. One of Bubba's friends, and even skinnier than him. Marshall seriously doubted that Angel liked chips, or any other food, for that matter. But he realized that this was probably a very sensitive subject, and knew better than to push it.
"Then I'm saving these for Angel," Marshall declared, sprinkling the last few floor chips into the garbage, "If you're not too busy looking pretty, find me a Ziploc to pour these into."
Spandex boy stepped closer to him. Apparently he'd never heard of "personal space". He wrapped his arms around Marshall, holding him in front of himself. He made his body his doll, falling limply into him, able to attain any position, but only when directed to do so. He whispered in his ear. Bubba's breath fell ticklish, but not in the way that makes for laughter.
"You think I'm pretty?"
Do birds fly? Other than chickens and penguins and probably emus? The little hairs that sat on the back of Marshall's neck sat no longer, and he was fairly certain that his other organs were playing tennis, and his heart was the ball. This much was surely enough to die from, and it wasn't that Marshall minded the act of dying, so much as he just minded doing it in such pretty little arms. He'd end up double dying from the humiliation of it all. So he closed his eyes and thought for a bit, but what was a bit in Marshall time, was decades in Bubba time. There was a hand down underneath his waistband already. Since when? How long had it been there? Marshall's ears perked up. He wondered if he blushed as much at the tips of either ear as he did on either cheek, but he thought it would be weird to ask in the heat of the moment.
"Angel wouldn't touch something you've touched anyways, he hates you." Only Bubba said it like he was bragging. He said everything like he was bragging. Perhaps he was worried he'd never make it to soccer mom days, and he had to squeeze all of the cockiness out of his little body before he died young. Marshall didn't know Angel, but probably if he did, Angel wouldn't hate him so much. Then again Angel wasn't alone in this hatred. Why was he being told this again? Why was it being whispered seductively in his ear like it meant something?
"Won't your parents be here soon? You have parents, don't you?"
Bubba turned him round and kissed him, but his tongue was flavored salt and his eyes were still have open. Marshall and his injured ligament tore away, staring at him with bewilderment.
"You were kissing me angrily just now."
Bubba now shared this look of uncertainty. "There's no such thing as kissing angrily, Marshall." He really knew how to lie, among other things. How to make you not trust yourself.
"Only, I know there is, because that's what you were just doing to me." Marshall watched his eyes, waiting for them to give something away, to tell him the key to this anger, "What's the matter? Parents dead? If it makes you feel any better, my dad's dead. Well, probably. I've never seen him before so he might as well be. Everyone dies eventually, right?" Marshall could hear the words but it was as if he wasn't forming them himself. He just spit out noises and let them gather as they may, the more nervous he got the more noises he spit, the faster his pulse, the faster his tongue.
"Jesus Christ, will you shut up for a second?" Bubba leaned in towards him again, but Marshall swerved out of reach at the last second. Sand in the wind. He wasn't giving up so easy. The other stuff could wait, it could be put off for a decent amount of time. There was always tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.
"No," He said bluntly, "I want to hear about your family."
"Ever considered that maybe it's none of your goddamn business? We aren't friends, we aren't lovers. We've fucked, OK? Am I now supposed to confide in you, just to keep you all jittery inside? Just to keep your little heart from breaking? Jesus, get over yourself."
With each word Marshall's heart dug deeper on a path towards his stomach. This should have been expected of course, this kind of treatment. But somehow he always let his guard down around Bubba, he always found his mouth saying stupid things and his face heating up over simple interaction. The dark haired teen ran his injured tongue along his teeth, and debated chewing on the throbbing muscle once more. The pain made for an excellent distraction, and it wasn't like he was undeserving of such torture. But thinking once more of how Bubba had reacted over the first tongue incident, Marshall decided against it.
"You know everything about me. It's only fair. And if you tell me this, just a little bit about yourself, I'll never ask anything of you ever again. Swear it."
"Another deal? You really think that's wise? And why do you care so much? It's stupid really. You're stupid for caring." But he didn't seem angry so much as...intrigued. He just didn't have the nice words to dress up his sentences. Big ones, but not nice ones. He almost seemed impressed, by the boldness of such a "stupidity" in his presence.
Marshall had his back against the fridge now, watching the other, but keeping his distance lest proximity lead to distractions.
"What else would you offer me, fashion advice?"