"Mark –" Maureen breaks off midsentence, eyes widening, hand covering her mouth to contain a devious smile of realization. "Your eyes are green."
Mark, who hadn't really been listening for about ten minutes now, freezes.
"What?"
No.
"Your eyes," she repeats, and prods him between them with one long finger. "They're green."
It's the first time someone has noticed. He'd been so careful.
God, he's screwed.
"No they're not," he tries, but feigning casual has never worked for him. He's not the actor here. Maureen looks absolutely smug now, coming closer, and there's nowhere to run in their tiny excuse for a kitchen.
"Yes they are." She gasps, suddenly, and then squeals shrilly enough that Mark has to cover his ears. He makes another mad lurch toward the door, but she grabs him by the wrists and yanks him back, looking at him with glittering, excited eyes. "Oh my God! Who is it?"
He grimaces and looks determinedly away from her. I should have just stayed into my room until it went away… "I don't know," he mutters reluctantly.
Mark wished he didn't know.
He'd honestly only found out by accident – because he happened to be in the record shop across the street, looking for an appropriate, quasi-romantic last-minute monthaversary gift for Maureen only a month ago, and had apparently looked exactly as frazzled and hopeless as he felt.
He can still feel that man's hands brushing his as they reached around him to pluck the perfect collection out of the stacks, can still see the infuriating smirk on his lips.
His eyes had been green.
And then, for a moment, they'd been shockingly blue.
It could have been a trick of the light… but that was being optimistic, and in this world, Mark knew better than to ignore something like that.
Roger, read the nametag. Sales associate.
Good. Now he knew the name of the (gorgeous) man he had to avoid for the rest of his life.
So, as Mark was wont to do, he ignored it. All of the increasingly obvious signs. When his nails turned black with polish he'd definitely never applied himself, and then back to clear pink; when his hair seemed longer, just for a few moments, and when he found scars he didn't like the look of on his arms and the crooks of his elbows.
Mere hallucinations. He could easily pawn the blame off on a glass of wine before bed, or the singular joint he'd shared with Collins earlier in the week.
Maureen, though, is not so easily deterred. "Who is it?" she demands, reaching out to grab his jaw and twist his head, looking into his eyes with some deep, glittering satisfaction that Mark honestly cannot understand. Why would anyone be excited about this? "I know you know. You can't just not know."
"Plenty of people don't know!" He frowns, trying to twist away from her and go back to his camera. He knows his cheeks are burning but there's not a lot he can do about it. Damn it, Maureen. This could have been a perfectly pleasant conversation… "It's not important, Mo. I'm not interested."
Aghast, she lets him go only to press a hand to her chest and step back. "Mark! That's horrible! Even if it turns out not to be romantic – it's so worth it! I can't imagine not having Joanne in my life, now. It's like nothing else!"
Her voice goes dreamy and the end and Mark has to suppress a phantom twinge of year-old jealousy in his gut. Maureen had met Joanne while she was still with Mark, planning a life with him – and she hadn't hesitated in making her choices, once she knew what Joanne wanted from her. It was hard sometimes not to be bitter about that.
Still, it was Maureen, and Mark loved her – she deserved to be happy, and Joanne obviously satisfied her every whim, which proved entertaining even if it did make him cringe with horrible sympathy.
Maureen is watching him now with those big brown eyes of hers, clutching his hand, silently pleading with him to talk to her…
God, it's so hard to resist that look. Even now.
But it's got nothing to do with that. She's not just my first love – she's – she's my best friend.
He swallows and is glad that he won't have to admit that out loud anytime soon. Collins would probably take the piss out of him for it if he ever did.
"I just – don't think it will work out," he admits, giving her a small, sheepish smile that never fails to make her coo. She does so now, which makes it even harder not to grin. "You know how things go with me. I wouldn't call myself successful. In anything."
Maureen tuts and reaches up again to turn him one way, then the other, looking him up and down critically. "Well, I'll admit, you could use a haircut and maybe a wardrobe adjustment…" He winces as her eyes light up. "I'll take you shopping! Besides, Mark, what are the odds that he'll reject you if he knows who you are?"
Mark is fairly certain he doesn't have the energy right now to try and explain his astronomical misgivings. He sighs, instead, half-heartedly.
What it really came down to was insecurity, not an existential crisis. But that somehow sounds even more pathetic than his professed cynicism. "I just don't think it's time," he tries, but Maureen is already cutting him off, breaking away from him to dig through her huge, gaudy floral purse enthusiastically.
"Oh, I have just the thing!"
"I am not wearing eye makeup, Maureen!"
It is a long two days before Maureen manages to get him close enough to the record shop to shove him inside, and when he turns to glare at her she's already making ridiculous, supposedly encouraging gestures through the glass.
With an internal groan, he turns back around and tries to pretend he knows what the fuck he's doing, abstractly hoping that if Roger is even working today he doesn't realize that the woman jumping up and down on the sidewalk outside is in any way acquainted with him.
Roger, gorgeous as the first time they'd locked eyes, is standing behind the counter looking dubiously out the window at her already.
So much for that.
He feels ridiculous. And blind. Maureen had plucked his glasses off of his face cheerfully and said that he looked better without them, but Mark was privately sure that she was just trying to unsubtly bring attention to the eye color predicament.
He grimaces at the thought of it. It didn't hurt or anything, but it was disconcerting. He wondered if Roger was half as disturbed as he was, or if he'd even noticed it…
He must have, unless he doesn't own any mirrors.
One glance at his getup is enough to assure him that this man does, in fact, own a mirror. Probably several. If I had an ass like that, I'd sure as hell have half a dozen mirrors in my house…
With a burst of chagrin, Mark realizes that Roger is looking at him, eyebrow raised, while he stands there in the middle of the store staring like an idiot. His face is hot as he clears his throat and stumbles forward, suddenly feeling entirely too reckless.
"Can I help you?" Roger asks, amused. His voice is as gravelly as he looks – there's stubble on his chin and he's got several silver hoops in one of his ears, just one in the other. Mark belatedly notices that he's wearing rather a lot of eyeliner, nails black where they're tapping on the counter, and feels even more ridiculous. Why didn't I let Maureen dress me?
This isn't the kind of man he'd ever imagined himself dating, let alone mated to.
Somehow, though, it still feels right.
He swallows nervously. "Hi! Um, I mean…" While he's struggling to come up with something to ask for, silently panicking and hoping Maureen can see all of the red flags he's mentally sending up calling her for help, Roger blinks and then narrows his eyes, peering more closely at him.
He points at him baldly. "You. I helped you a couple of months ago, didn't I?" His face cracks into a devious grin. "Looking for another record for your girlfriend?"
"What? No," Mark stammers, completely thrown. For one terrifying moment he'd thought that Roger had realized who he was, and had nearly blurted out an answer to a question he hadn't even been asked. "No, um, no, she's – she found her mate, you know, they're getting married this summer…"
Why did I say that? Why am I telling him this?
He chances a desperate glance back in Maureen's direction. Save me.
She gives him a delighted thumbs up, discreetly from behind a sign, apparently oblivious to the pleading in his eyes.
He tries not to scowl. So much for that.
"That's too bad," Roger murmurs, and he has to swivel back to look at him, breath hitching when he realizes he's wandered closer to the counter – Roger is leaning forward on it casually, entirely too close for Mark's liking. His heart is jackhammering in his chest. "You here for yourself, then?"
He starts to say something else, and Mark opens his mouth to answer, and they both freeze.
Roger blinks. His eyes are blue.
Mark stares at him hopelessly, mouth dry, and gives up trying to remember the lines he hadn't rehearsed nearly enough with Maureen. "No…"
Roger is silent for a long, long moment, a flurry of expressions crossing his face – understanding, slight incredulity (Mark winces at that one), helpless shock – and finally, he seems to settle on cautious pleasure.
His eyes are still blue. Mark imagines his must be equally green. Normally it doesn't last this long – just a flicker, a minute at the most, but now it's obvious, now there really is no going back…
He reaches across the counter and lightly grabs Mark's wrist, just as he tries to back away. "If you don't want a record, how about dinner?"
The invitation is not something he's prepared for. Mark hears himself make a small, choked noise, trying frantically to find some appropriate response.
In the end the most he can squeak out is a quick, "Sure, why not!"
Roger smiles slowly, languidly. His eyes shutter back to green, and Mark swears he could fall into them.
"Alright. I'll see you at seven, here?"
Outside, Maureen lets out a whoop that's barely muffled through the glass.