Archive of Our Own

1.

He’s barely sixteen years old and alone, and he's at a house party in Fairfax. 

Mark can count all the parties he’s been invited to during his Sophomore year on one hand, and the number of invitations he’s accepted is even smaller. Even now, he only came because Bill – this kid who comes over with a guitar every once in a while and lets Mark borrow his tapes sometimes – insisted on having company tonight. Something about some girl, something about looking like an idiot coming here alone. Mark doesn’t really care about the details.

This party is definitely the biggest one he remembers being at. The house itself isn’t huge, but it’s packed wall to wall, and Mark feels like he’s about to drown in a sea of more or less drunk teenagers and a few people who look like they're well past high school.

Mark maneuvers himself through the party goers, across the living room, and flattens himself against the wall. He scans the crowd, trying to find someone he knows well enough to join them, though already, he knows it to be a futile effort – he doesn’t have many friends, and certainly not ones that would be here. Bill disappeared almost immediately upon arrival to find the poor girl he's been planning to seduce with his endless natural charm. Mark can only hope he’ll actually remember he came here with somebody once that plan inevitably fails. 

The sea of people ripples. It’s nothing but unfamiliar faces, a mass of strangers illuminated by pink and purple lights. Mark has no idea whose house he’s even in right now. He feels like an asshole, standing in the corner by himself. It’s only been about fifteen minutes since he arrived, and he’s already desperate for an excuse to leave.

He tips his head back, drums his fingers against the wallpaper in time with the reverberating bass, trying to play along to some disco song he doesn’t recognize.

He’s not paying attention – there’s really no way for him to be any more out of the way – and someone knocking into his arm while trying to squeeze past him takes him by surprise. He jerks away, but there’s nowhere to go with the wall right behind him, and a huge splash of what he assumes is beer lands on his bare arm, all over the front of his shirt. The guy doesn’t even acknowledge it, just stumbles past Mark like a drunk zombie, apparently not caring that his stupid plastic cup is now half-empty.

Fuck. Great.

Mark doesn’t yell out after him, but it’s a very near thing. The music’s too loud, the dude’s already disappearing into the crowd, and Mark doesn’t really want to get into a fight with anybody tonight. 

It’s not worth it. Not fucking worth it.

The corner’s too stifling, suddenly. He’s tired and annoyed and there’s a mass forming in the center of his chest, crawling up his windpipe. The sour smell of beer soaking through his shirt is overwhelming, and the length of his arm feels sticky and disgusting.

He wants out of this party, needs to get away from the blaring music, wants to go home and stand in the shower until the stench of sweat and alcohol is gone. But Bill is in charge of getting them a ride home, and he’s off somewhere with a girl he has no chance with, so Mark’s just going to have to suffer.

Trying to swallow down the white-hot irritation, he pushes his way through the crowd and towards the hallway, squeezes past the sweaty, drunken bodies with probably unnecessary aggression.

The downstairs bathroom is occupied when Mark checks it, so he heads to the kitchen where it’s quieter and brighter. People are drifting in and out, mostly coming to raid the fridge or grab a cup from the corner of the counter. Nobody pays any attention to Mark and his sour expression.

He washes his hands, scrubs at the stain on his shirt in the sink. It reaches from the collar almost all the way down, and in the end he’s just left with a shirt that still smells like beer and is now about ten times more wet and uncomfortable than it was before. At least he feels a little cleaner.

Going back to the living room and getting shoved around some more, or better yet, having another drink poured on him, is the last thing he wants to do. Mark suspects it’s still at least another hour before Bill is ready to leave.

There’s not many places he can go – he’s sure as fuck not going to explore some stranger’s house by himself, so he heads for the front door. He slips outside, and the melody of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” from the living room stereo fades out into nothing as the door swings shut behind him.

He’s alone, suddenly, on the front porch, in the quiet night air.

For a moment, breath comes easier.

It’s dark already, the stars out, dim light spilling out through the windows behind him, illuminating the porch. It leaves most of the front yard in the dark, and the house lights along the street seem distant.

Summer is slowly creeping closer, but it's been gray and rainy for a couple of weeks now, and Mark is still only wearing a t-shirt. It’s not long before he starts getting chilly, with the cold breeze ruffling the trees, the wet spot on his shirt sticking to his skin uncomfortably.

Mark digs into his back pocket for his pack of cigarettes, something to warm him up.

He only started smoking this year, and he isn't really used to the taste yet. He expected that the habit would make him look older, but the first time had him coughing his lungs out and tearing up, more embarrassing than anything else. Now it's just something to do when he's feeling nervous or awkward.

He finds the familiar shape of the cardboard box, but something is missing.

His lighter.

He left his lighter home.

He presses a fist into the space between his eyes, angry at himself.

Mark is ready to admit defeat when the front door clicks open, and he whips around to see someone step out. The guy is clearly pretty drunk, but he's keeping upright – Mark watches him stumble down the front steps, stagger towards the nearby bushes, then promptly pull down his pants and take a piss, which, gross. At least he's turned the other way.

When he comes back to the house, Mark stops him. If there’s even a slim chance…

“Hey, man. You have a light?”

The guy blinks at him, like he’s trying to force his one drunk brain cell to function.“Uh, yeah.”

He shoves a hand into his pocket, chucks a lighter towards Mark, who fumbles to catch it. 

“Thanks.”

The guy stands around, waiting and watching as he sticks a cigarette between his lips and lights up. Before Mark goes to hand the borrowed item back, he pauses. He still has four more smokes in the pack.

“Do you want to–”

The door opens again, and a girl sticks her head out. “Jay? Oh, you're here. Come back inside.”

She holds out a hand, and Jay takes it, lets himself get pulled into a kiss by his girlfriend, Mark guesses. He almost forgets about the lighter completely until Mark calls out after him.

They go back inside, and Mark stays on the porch, surrounded by silence again, the cigarette cherry glowing orange in the dark.

It's not doing much to keep him warm, and he wants nothing more than to be back in California.

2.

“Hey, how’s it feel?”

Mark doesn’t know this girl, but he’s three beers deep and he’s on top of the world, so he shakes the hand extended to him with two of his own.

“Incredible”, he says, can feel himself grinning from ear to ear. It’s not just the alcohol – everything in his life is slotting into place right now, and the things he’s dared to only dream of feel more reachable than ever. “Feels fucking great.”

It's the first time he's been able to draw a full breath in a week, it feels like. Here, in somebody’s backyard under the slowly setting sun.

The last few days are a blur of writing lyric sheets, meticulously arranging the artwork, and then delivering the tapes to any record stores that were willing to put them on their shelves. Mark’s lower back still stings from the countless hours he’s spent sitting on his family’s living room floor folding what felt like a billion individual sheets of paper to put the tapes together one by one, but he hardly cares about that right now.

It’s out. Their first real, proper record is out and it’s probably not a masterpiece but that’s what it feels like to him. It’s a major milestone and Mark thinks they need to celebrate it.

The girl laughs, crinkling eyes and white teeth in the escaping evening light. “That’s good. All deserved.”

Mark looks her up and down, tries to place her face somewhere. Sharp features, dirty blond hair that curls over her ears and cascades onto her shoulders. Downturned eyes, maybe green. She seems a few years older than Mark, but it’s hard to tell. He knows most of the people around only vaguely, some not at all, and he has to admit that he’s surprised by the amount of people that showed up  – there are plastic lawn chairs scattered across the grass, more guests without seats standing around between them or sitting on the ground.

“Sorry, uh. Do I–”

“Oh, no.” She waves a hand. “You don’t know me. I’m just here as a supporter.”

“Are you saying you’re a fan?” Mark asks, trying – and failing – to keep his face from betraying exactly how pleased he is by the sentiment. People actually coming up and telling him they enjoy the sloppy punk rock they put out is still rare enough that he’s a little taken aback.

The girl only smiles wider, tucks a curl of hair behind her ear. “Sure. When you guys get real successful, I can say I was always rooting for blink.”

“Cool. Backstage pass guaranteed for life.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Mark is about to ask who he should be signing the autograph to, when someone’s arm wraps around his middle from behind. There’s no time for him to be too surprised, because the touch is followed by a familiar body pressing firmly along his back, a sharp chin digging into his shoulder.

“What’s goinnon?” Tom asks, too close to his ear, too loud even over the music.

The way his words are blurring together, the way he’s swaying where he stands are sure signs that Tom is already way drunker than he needs to be at this time of night. Mark peels his arm from around his waist, turns around to give him a one-armed hug.

“Hi”, he says, unable to keep from laughing when Tom grabs a fistful of his shirt, clings to him with the full weight of his body. The kid might be skinny, but he’s so fucking tall , and there’s no way Mark would be able to carry all of him. “Somebody’s had a few drinks.”

“We’re celebrating”, Tom defends himself, rocking from side to side like he’s trying to slow dance, almost making Mark lose his balance in the process.

“Alright, fair enough”, Mark says, pushing at his shoulders to get him upright. “Stand on your own feet, dude.”

Tom does, without further complaints. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, and he’s wearing a dopey grin when Mark finally gets a good look at his face. But his gaze is fixed on something behind him, and it takes Mark a second to remember the conversation he’d been in the middle of.

“Oh, right”, he says, pulling Tom forward, gesturing at the girl still patiently standing around and waiting for them to be done. “I just had the pleasure of meeting our number one fan–” 

He pauses. He realizes he never got a name.

“Hannah”, the girl supplies, holds out a hand, which Tom takes. “It’s true. Huge fan.”

There’s a teasing glint in her eye, in the smile on her face, but the words are genuine as far as Mark can tell, although the booze and the lingering feeling of victory are making it really hard for him to feel too pessimistic. 

“Yeah?” Tom asks. The handshake is somewhat sloppy on his end. “That’s awesome.”

“Yeah”, Hannah replies. “Pat wouldn’t stop talking about how you guys are the next big thing. The new generation of punk rock. Had to find out for myself.”

Mark perks up at that. “You know Pat?”

They could’ve never done this without Pat. Not without his unwavering and frankly inexplicable belief in them, without his money and his dedication. Mark thinks he’s going to owe that man for the rest of his life, regardless of if blink ever becomes anything bigger than a local, filthy and fast punk band. He’s the main reason they got this record out in the first place.

“Sure. Knew him before he even started at the Wherehouse.”

“Oh, wow. You go way back.”

“We do. Probably bonded over music in the first place.”

“So you were pressured by my boss to give us a try?”

Hannah huffs out a soft laugh. “I didn’t need to be pressured. He knows good music when he hears it, I swear he knows every up-and-coming band worth listening to. And I have to say–” She nods at them both. “He keeps being right. I bought the record, and I wasn't disappointed.”

“You been to any shows?” Tom asks.

The tone of his voice is light, and he sounds genuinely interested, even sort of flattered by the praise they’re getting, but there’s something strangely intense about the way he’s looking at Hannah when he says it. Mark isn’t sure if he’s imagining it, or if he’s just attuned to subtle changes in Tom’s mood.

“Just one, at the end of last year”, Hannah replies easily. She doesn’t seem to pick up on anything unusual, and she pauses before continuing, meets Mark’s eyes, holds his gaze steadily for the next thing she says. “Had a really good time. You can bet I’ll be at the next one, too.”

Mark nudges Tom’s side. He’s grinning like an idiot, not even attempting to play it cool. This girl likes their music, bought their homemade album, and is visibly excited to see them play live. “I already promised her a lifetime backstage pass.”

Tom nudges him back, considerably more uncoordinated. “Dude, you can’t be giving those away to every girl you get a crush on.”

The comment takes Mark by surprise, and he bursts out laughing, punches Tom in the shoulder, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough for him to feel it. “Shut the fuck up!”

Tom responds by throwing an arm around his shoulders, nearly taking him down a second time. “I’m just trying to give you advice. You’ll get your heart broken again.”

“You’re so fucking annoying”, Mark says, but wraps his own arm around Tom’s waist to keep them both upright. “And you’re drunk.”

“You’re not drunk enough”, Tom responds. He’s trying to tug Mark backwards. “Come on, let’s get you another drink.”

“Fine”, Mark says, before turning back to Hannah. “Hey, it was nice to meet you. Looking forward to seeing you at the show.”

“Absolutely”, Hannah says, head tilted to the side. Her eyes are flicking between the two of them. “See you around.”

Mark waves her goodbye, and lets Tom pull him back towards the house where there’s a fridge full of beer and numerous bottles of liquor reserved just for this occasion. He gets himself another drink, and somewhere along the way Tom picks up an acoustic guitar which he brings outside with them. It’s almost entirely dark now, only the last slivers of orange visible in the horizon, but the party shows no signs of slowing down at all. The yard is packed , and Mark has a hard time believing that everyone who showed up tonight is actually there for them.

“What are you planning to do with that?” Mark asks, nodding at the guitar in Tom’s hand.

“Uh, I’m gonna play a fucking song?” Tom says, shooting him a look that translates to are you a complete fucking idiot?  

It would be more effective if he wasn’t having such a hard time focusing his eyes – he had another shot of whiskey while Mark was grabbing himself a beer, and Mark is already certain he’s going to be the one dragging Tom’s drunk ass home at the end of the night. He’ll bitch and complain, but in reality he’s not that bothered about it. He never is. He’d rather make sure Tom gets home safe and drinks at least one glass of water before passing out. It feels kind of stupid, because Tom is eighteen and he’s not dumb or reckless enough that he needs to be constantly looked after, but in some ways, he’s still a kid in Mark’s eyes.

There’s the lingering need to keep an eye on him, to make sure he’s alright, and Mark’s not sure if it's ever going to go away.

“Play a song?” he asks, a little disbelieving. “Are you sure you remember how to hold a guitar correctly right now?”

“Fuck you”, Tom says, but he doesn’t sound very offended. He aims a kick at Mark’s ankle, making him stumble and spill some of his beer. “I’m not that drunk. The people want a show.”

Mark laughs. Nobody’s certainly asked for a show. “Yeah, I bet that’s what they’re here for. To hear you abuse that poor instrument.”

“Mark.”

He’s whining now, pulling this miserable face like a stray dog out in the rain, big brown eyes on full display. Mark folds.

“Jesus, alright”, he says, pulls the guitar out of Tom’s hands. “But if you want this to be a two-man band, I’m playing this. You’re a better singer drunk than I am.”

Tom doesn’t protest. A huge smile spreads across his face, and he starts shoving Mark towards the center of the backyard, like he really intends for their show to be seen and heard by everyone. The crowd parts politely, pulling all but two the lawn chairs to the side and making room for them. They truly are a two-man band tonight – Scott had to leave early, but they don’t really need a drummer for an acoustic song, anyway.

Mark sets his beer down in the grass, settles into the plastic chair with the guitar in his lap. Tom pulls the other one close, and Mark props his feet on his thigh, leans back as far as he dares to on the rickety piece of furniture.

“Alright”, He addresses everybody watching them, taps his palm against the body of the guitar gently. “We have one song for you, free of charge. Consider this album promotion.”

They play a slow, imperfect version of “Carousel”. Mark misses a couple of notes, and Tom stumbles over the lyrics in the second verse, dissolving into giggles every time he fucks up. They’re butchering their own song, but nobody in the audience seems to mind. They’re having fun . The victorious feeling isn’t fading at all, and seeing Tom so happy is igniting something impossibly warm and bright in Mark’s chest.

Everything is going right.

When the last twangs of the guitar echo out, they receive scattered applause and drunken cheering. Tom clambers up from the chair to bow at their audience, nearly falling on his face, and Mark reaches out to pull him back by the leg of his pants. Tom seems to take it as an invitation to start behaving like a lunatic, because he immediately tries to kick the legs from under Mark’s chair.

Mark barely has time to put the guitar down safely before he’s on the ground with Tom half on top of him, laughing while pinning his shoulders down, one bony knee digging painfully into Mark’s ribs. The crowd parts quickly to make room for them.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Mark wheezes, breath knocked out of him, balling his fists into Tom’s shirt. He tries to sound more annoyed, but it’s impossible not to mirror Tom’s joyous expression, his easy laughter. “Get off me!”

Tom barely hears him. He throws a leg over Mark’s midsection to keep him down, and Mark nearly knees him in the groin by accident. That doesn’t do much to discourage Tom either, and he tries to seize Mark’s wrists to make him defenseless.

Mark isn’t nearly as wasted, so he manages to wrestle his hands away from Tom’s grip and stab his fingers between Tom’s ribs. Tom spasms, grunts half in pain and half in laughter, but rolls off of Mark, onto his back on the grass beside him.

“I hate you”, Mark tells him, kicks at Tom blindly to get the point across. He's almost sure the spot on his side is going to bruise.

Tom is breathing hard, laughter still tumbling out of him between the breaths. “You’re lying. You're such a liar.”

“No, I’m leaving your ass at this party. And I'm putting out an ad for a new guitar player.”

“Can’t replace this talent.”

“Try your fucking luck”, Mark says. “I could teach a ten-year-old to play your parts in a day. No one would notice the difference.”

He blinks up at the dark sky. His head is spinning like he’s in a roller coaster, a consequence of going from vertical to horizontal too fast while drunk. The grass is prickling at his neck and arms unpleasantly, but he can’t get up yet. He feels like he’s floating away from his own body and into the night sky. If he closed his eyes he'd leave the ground.

“‘M sure Hannah wouldn’t”, Tom mumbles, so quiet that Mark almost doesn’t catch it.

“What?”

“She wouldn’t give a shit”, Tom clarifies, then pauses. He’s not making sense. “Hannah. Fuck, you know.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Mark asks, rolls onto his side in the grass to see Tom’s face. For a couple of seconds, he has no idea who Hannah even is and why Tom is bringing her up, but then he remembers the conversation from earlier. “Hannah?”

Tom groans, scrubs a hand across his face like Mark’s being an asshole and deliberately not understanding his point. “Yeah. ‘M saying. If she’s coming to see us, it’s not gonna be for the guitar.”

Mark laughs, mostly in confusion. He lays a hand on Tom’s arm. “What? What is this? Did you hit your head or something?”

“Come on. Stop being fucking stupid. She was your biggest fan, not– Not ours. Not the band’s.”

It’s the last thing Mark expects to hear. There’s something tense about the way Tom says it, a stark contrast to the way he’s been all evening, giggly and relaxed and seemingly unconcerned with everything but getting wasted and having fun. Mark has no clue what this change in his mood is about.

“Are you… Tom, are you jealous?”

Tom turns to him so fast Mark swears he can almost hear his neck crack, eyes suddenly, momentarily clear despite his inebriated state. “ No .”

“Dude”, Mark says, shoving at Tom lightly. “You can’t be pissed ‘cause you think someone likes me better than you.”

“That’s not even–” Tom begins, then seems to stop himself. He lowers his voice, brings his face closer like he’s about to tell a secret. “Y'don't get it. Fuck, Mark. She had, like, the biggest, fucking. Girl-equivalent of a boner for you.”

“What? ” Mark huffs, because it has to be a joke, that's how out of the blue it is – but one look at Tom’s face tells him that it isn’t. “For– Where are you getting this?”

“Like it wasn’t obvious”, Tom says, like it’s just an offhanded comment, something to roll his eyes at, but his tone is starting to tip into a territory of genuinely irritated, and it's not making any sense. Neither of them has ever been jealous of each other when it came to girls. “She wanted your dick so badly.”

“Are you actually being serious right now?”

Tom scoffs. “Fuck you. You’re not blind.”

Mark has a feeling that Tom wouldn’t be saying all of this if he wasn’t this drunk, but the annoyance in his voice is barely softened by the alcohol. It’s making Mark’s hackles rise. As if he’s done something wrong here.

Mark looks back towards the sky, tries to recall the details of the interaction, tries to pick out any lingering smiles, double-meanings. Maybe there was something, but not enough for it to be obvious to Mark. And what difference would that make, anyway? He wasn't interested – he's here, isn’t he, not trying to take Hannah home with him at the end of the night. He’s still almost entirely convinced that Tom is just making shit up because he's had too much to drink and he wanted Hannah to flirt with him instead.

Mark presses a hand over his eyes. Forget it. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t need to know.

“Shut up”, he says, because this is where he intends to end the conversation, equally for his own sake and Tom’s. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tries to nudge Tom’s arm to signal that it's not worth it arguing about this, but Tom rolls away from him, leaving Mark staring at his back.

“Whatever.” 

Mark is lost. He has no idea why Tom’s mood soured so quickly, what he possibly could have done to cause it, except not take his accusations very seriously. He sits up, wipes dirt and pieces of grass off his pants. The beer he brought outside, nearly full when he set it down, has been knocked over at some point. Suddenly he doesn’t feel much like partying anymore.

“Fine”, he says to the back of Tom’s head and reaches for the guitar, forgotten on the ground a few feet away. “Be a bitch about it. I’m gonna take this back before someone breaks it.”

He crosses the yard with the instrument in his hand, grateful that nobody tries to stop him to have a conversation. He's all out of small-talk. It doesn’t take more than a minute, and when he comes back, Tom’s made no effort to get up at all. He’s still curled up on the lawn, eyes half-closed like he’s on the brink of falling asleep.

Mark sighs. The sharp edge of annoyance is softening quickly at the sight. “Alright. Time to get you home.”

Wrestling Tom upright is like trying to make a wet noodle stand up – there’s no cooperation whatsoever, and Mark suspects he’s just trying to be difficult. He’ll be sleeping on the doormat if he doesn’t start pulling his weight by the time they get home – to his mom’s house.

By some miracle, Mark manages to get them a ride, and exchanges rushed goodbyes with whoever notices that they’re going. Tom is quiet the whole way. Turned away from him in the backseat, forehead leaning against the window, and Mark can’t tell if he's nodding off or just sulking.

Despite the weird way the night ended, Tom’s already under the covers in Mark’s bed by the time he comes back from the bathroom, back turned to the door, shoes and socks and pants discarded on the floor. The tense line of his shoulders indicates he isn’t asleep, but he barely stirs when Mark climbs in after him. It’s not rare for them to share – waking up to somebody kicking you in the shin feels like a small price to pay for the convenience, and he can’t remember ever being uncomfortable with sharing space with Tom in the way most friends probably would be.

The only unusual thing about it is the silence.

Mark is sobering up fast, and with the haze of intoxication disappearing, he's left with beginnings of a headache and a weight sitting in the middle of his chest that won't let him close his eyes. He doesn't want to go to sleep when he feels like they’re still fighting about something. Especially when he doesn't know what the fuck that something is. It’s not even clear if it's him that Tom is really upset with, or if this is about something else entirely.

“Hey”, he says, reaches across the bed to touch Tom’s shoulder blade. He tries to keep his voice gentle. “Dude. Why are you being so weird tonight?”

Tom doesn’t answer at first. He seems to curl further into himself, exhaling unsteadily like he’s trying to hold back a wave of emotion, and it only makes Mark more concerned.

“Tom”, he coaxes, brushing his fingers against the back of Tom’s neck, the short hairs there. It’s a familiar way of giving him comfort, and usually Tom relaxes into the touch easily. Not now. “You can talk to me.”

The rustle of sheets seems loud after the long silence as Tom turns to face him. Mark pulls his hand back, waits.

“Sorry”, Tom says, just the one word, and it’s too dark for Mark to see his face properly but his voice is sort of wet and shivery. That sets off the alarm bells in Mark’s head instantly.

He doesn’t get the chance to ask what he means, what exactly he’s apologizing for, because the next moment Tom is on his side of the bed, shoving himself against Mark clumsily in the dark, pressing his shoulders into the mattress. Like in the backyard, on the lawn, except this doesn’t feel fun and playful.

And Tom is–

Tom is kissing him, wet and uncoordinated and deep enough that Mark can taste the shots of whiskey on his lips. Holding on to him like he's drowning. 

And then it’s over. It’s over and Tom is breathing hard and shaking equally hard against him, like he’s terrified, but Mark can barely comprehend any of it. He can feel his own heart pounding in his throat, and he’s nauseous in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.

“Tom”, he chokes out. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say, there’s never been a situation he’s been less prepared for. “You’re–”

You’re drunk. You’re a guy. You’re my best friend. 

He can’t get any of the words out. The moment is frozen.

Tom lets out a little, wounded noise and pulls away – Mark realizes he’s trying to climb off the bed completely, he’s trying to leave , and he seizes his arm. He’s still reeling, trying to make his brain catch up with whatever the fuck is happening, but letting Tom be alone right now is not an option.

“Hey, no”, he says, pulling Tom into a hug, relief flooding through him when Tom doesn’t resist. His body is working on autopilot, doing what it’s supposed to do, like the full weight of it hasn’t set it yet. “It’s okay. That’s fine.”

He should give Tom more than that, probably, but it’s the only thing he knows for certain right now – it is fine, as shaken as he is. He can’t even imagine wanting Tom to apologize for something like this, not when he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears.

“Sorry”, Tom gasps again, muffled by Mark’s shoulder as he slumps into the embrace. He feels so small there, trembling in the circle of Mark’s arms, and it’s impossible to tell if it's more distress or relief. “‘M sorry.”

Mark shushes him, hopes his own voice sounds steady, strokes a soothing hand down Tom’s neck. He can’t let himself fully think about this, the implications of everything – what he might’ve missed, what he would’ve known if he– 

He just needs to make sure Tom doesn’t freak out over this. He needs to not freak out over this.

“Don’t need to be. It’s okay.”

He can’t think about it.

It takes a while before Tom relaxes enough to let Mark guide him back down on the bed, arrange the covers over the both of them. Even longer before the exhaustion and the alcohol win the battle and he falls asleep.

Mark lies awake for a long time after, feeling too sober and blind and not brave enough.

3.

Birthdays on the road can be tough. You’re away from your family, from the comforts of your own home, no one is there to throw you a party or surprise you with a cake. Cards have no hope of finding you when you’re spending every day in a different city. The best you can usually hope for is a phone call from one or two family members and a night of getting wasted in some local bar.

It’s not anyone’s favorite way to finish another trip around the sun.

Tom doesn’t seem to be having a bad time at all, though, getting older in some dingy little bar at the edge of a city they've never been in –  Mark can see him laughing in the corner booth from across the room, elbows on the table and leaning across it to hear the conversation better. They finished a show just a couple of hours ago, and they all agreed that it was too late to get back on the road. It’s not a big party by any means, only Mark, Tom, and a few guys from the crew they managed to convince to join them after the gig was wrapped up.

Mark squeezes into the booth next to Tom, a beer in each hand – he’s buying, since it’s Tom they’re celebrating tonight. “Here you go. I asked the staff if they could come and sing “Happy Birthday” to you, maybe put on some fun little party hat for the occasion, but I don’t think they were into it.”

He nods back at the bar, at the big, burly, bald and heavily tattooed bartender standing behind it. Tom snorts, shakes his head, and the guys on the other side of the table laugh. He takes the offered beer, clinks the glass against Mark's gently, then raises it at the entire group before bringing it to his own lips.

There's a chorus of “happy birthdays” and “cheers". Mark sips his own beer, watches Tom take a drink, too fast, so that some of the liquid dribbles past his lips and onto the collar of his shirt, the way his throat works when he swallows, his head thrown back just slightly. The heat swirling around in Mark’s stomach has nothing to do with the alcohol, and everything to do with the sight of Tom, relaxed and happy and spilling beer on himself with the first drink he takes. It's a familiar mix of desire and aching affection, a combination that only Tom has ever managed to pull out of him.

When Tom sets his glass down, he notices Mark looking. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, something amused and maybe even a little shy creeping into his smile.

“What?”

“It's just–” Mark sighs, wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “It's just all so emotional. Our baby’s growing up so fast. It feels like just yesterday when you started puberty.”

Tom shoves his shoulder, but cracks up laughing. “I still haven't finished puberty. It's a medical condition.”

The joke earns laughs from some of the others, though most of the group is engaged in their own conversations, not  paying attention to the two of them. They have the nicest guys ever in their crew, always willing to go out and have a good time, and Mark enjoys hanging out with them whenever they can afford to take it easy between the shows. 

Still, some part of him is anxious to be alone with Tom. He's learned to be more patient than this most of the time, and he isn't sure what it is tonight. Maybe just the fact that it's his birthday and they haven't had proper time together yet with the show and everything. Mark wants nothing more than to get to the hotel and close the door behind them, really get to celebrate. For now, he's stuck with pressing his thigh against his under the table, hidden from everyone's view. He can feel Tom pressing back, immediate and eager, and he has to dig his teeth into the inside of his own lip to keep his expression from betraying everything he's thinking.

How badly he wants Tom right in that moment, in some crappy bar he doesn’t know the name of, surrounded by all these people who have no idea.

“Sorry I didn’t get you a cake”, he says. “They don't do those here. I checked.”

“You can buy me a muffin from the gas station tomorrow.”

“You're lucky I'm so generous”, Mark says, taps his shoe against Tom's. “I'll buy you two if you ask really nicely.”

It's bold, toeing the line of actually flirting in a setting like this. Maybe it doesn't look too different from the way they always are with each other from the outside, but the private smirk that tugs at the corners of Tom's lips makes all the difference.

Mark isn’t going to make it through this party.

“How is it, being on the road like this on your birthday?” one of the others – Nick – asks from across the table. “I know you're used to touring, but man. It always sucks not being able to be home for days like this.”

Tom shrugs. “I don’t mind. I mean, I get to go home and see my family tomorrow.”

“It's not a proper birthday until Tom gets a birthday kiss from his mom”, Mark tells everyone. “That's all he's been talking about all day. It's kind of embarrassing, honestly.”

Tom doesn’t miss a beat. “But you know what my favorite thing to get for my birthday is?” 

“Oral sex?” Mark guesses, because what else would it be.

“A blowjob”, Tom says, almost at the same time, then laughs when he realizes how in sync they are with each other. “Yep. That's what Mark’s mom gives me every year.”

Nobody's too shocked at them talking about fucking each other’s mothers anymore, especially not the people who are forced to listen to it as often as their crew does. The filthiest of jokes now only get light chuckles and a few headshakes out of them.

“Well”, Nick says, deadpan. “At least you have something to look forward to.”

Tom nudges Mark's arm. “When did you last talk to Mrs Hoppus? Has she been asking about me?”

“Oh, yeah. She doesn't give a shit about me coming home, she just wants to see you again.”

“I have that effect on older women”, Tom says. “She just can't wait to give me my present.”

Mark shakes his head. “Dude, she could do so much better. Actually, you remember that one homeless guy back home? The one without any teeth, who used to sit across the street from that bar and–”

Tom's mouth drops open and his eyes widen comically, a perfect image of deep outrage. “Of all the days– How could you say something like that to me on my birthday?” He jabs Mark with an elbow. “You should be kissing my ass today. You know what, since your mom's not here, you should be sucking my–”

Mark cracks up laughing, unable to keep the pretense of serious insults going at the sight of Tom's exaggerated expression. “Oh, you'll get all the birthday kisses you want, come here.”

He presses closer, pursing his lips, tries to place the most disgusting, sloppy kiss on Tom's cheek before he can defend himself. There's nowhere to run, but Tom tries anyway, pushes Mark’s face aside with the heel of his hand, nearly knocking both of their glasses off the table in the process. Still, he's grinning hard, all teeth and laughter lines, and Mark feels so giddy with joy he can hardly contain it.

He barely cares that there's half a dozen other dudes sitting around the table, watching them acting like fucking idiots. He barely cares if everyone currently laughing at their antics can read it in his face – he’s convinced that most people know anyway, on some level, even if the details of it aren't obvious. He’s never been able to hide how he feels about Tom.

“You're so fucking nasty”, Tom complains when Mark, unable to reach his face, finally settles for wiping his mouth all over his hand instead. “And you should be taking some pointers from your mom.”

Mark pulls back, waggling his eyebrows as Tom tries to clean his hand with the hem of his shirt. “You're into it.”

Tom doesn’t deny the accusation. He pulls his beer back to safety from the edge of the table, takes another drink to hide his smile.

The night goes like that, in a flow of laughter and easy conversation, until one by one, everyone starts to get tired, finishing their drinks and talking about getting back to the hotel to get a decent night's sleep, at least. Nick is the last one to go.

“You guys want me to wait?” he asks, gesturing to Mark's and Tom’s nearly empty glasses.

Mark waves him off before Tom can say anything. “Nah, you go ahead. I think I'm gonna have one more.”

“Alright”, Nick says. “Don't stay up too late, kids.”

Mark raises his glass as a goodbye, watches him go. It's just him and Tom, sitting way closer than they need to with all the space in the booth now that everybody else is gone. The rest of the bar has been gradually filling up with patrons during the last couple of hours, and the room is alive with chatter, the speakers blasting out radio hits from twenty or so years ago.

“Finish your beer”, Mark says.

Tom's eyebrows approach his hairline, but he complies, lifts the glass to his lips. “What, are you in a hurry now?”

Mark shrugs, scans the bar behind them. There’s something sharp and restless pinching at the bottom of his stomach, and Tom’s thigh is still pressed firmly along his, solid and warm, their elbows knocking together with every movement. It’s been simmering beneath his skin the whole night – Tom’s closeness, all the smiles and the touches – and it’s reaching its boiling point. He’s not even close to being drunk, not after less than two beers, but he's had just enough that some little demon in his head has convinced him that this is a good idea.

As soon as Tom’s glass hits the table, Mark is tugging him out of the booth. “Come on.”

“You still have–” Tom begins, confused, but follows nonetheless.

The last mouthful of warm beer, sitting at the bottom of his glass, doesn't seem important anymore. Mark guides them across the bar, past the counter, barely glancing back, just trusting that Tom is following him every step of the way.

Around the corner, hidden from view, are two bathrooms, both unoccupied. There’s nobody hanging around, nobody watching, and with his heart in his throat, Mark pulls one of the doors open, tugs Tom inside with him. He locks the door behind them with shaky hands, then double-checks it. He must be losing his shit, this is–

He turns back to Tom, who's standing in front of the sink, a slow, wide-eyed realization dawning on his face. “Mark.”

Mark wipes his palms on the legs of his pants. Suddenly they're clammy, the back of his neck prickling with sweat. He approaches slowly, giving Tom time to back away, to tell him that this is an absolutely horrible idea, that they should be getting the fuck out before someone catches them.

He’s not sure if he’d be relieved or disappointed.

Tom doesn’t, just lets himself be backed against the wall between the sink and the door – the space there doesn't feel as claustrophobic as Mark feared it would.

He tries to swallow down his nervousness, curls his hands around Tom's biceps, brings their faces close together. “Is this– Is this okay?”

Tom makes a noise against his mouth, something like a whine, or a hysterical laugh. They're lucky that the music playing in the bar is needlessly loud. “Dude, are you– What are you even doing?”

“Can’t wait”, Mark whispers, brushes their lips together. “Want you so bad.”

The sound that leaves Tom’s throat this time is definitely a whine, high-pitched and involuntary. He glances at the locked door. “Jesus, Mark. Here?”

“Yeah, I mean. If you're into it.”

“Are you serious, are you actually for fucking real–”

“So fucking real”, Mark laughs, presses their mouths together to shut Tom up. Hearing him stumbling through his sentences like that, as if he's a nervous teenager again, is starting to chip away at the worst of Mark’s own anxieties.

Tom returns the kiss eagerly, without hesitation, a hand traveling up his arm, his shoulder to the back of his neck to pull him closer.

The fluorescent light buzzes overhead. The old pipes of the bathroom hum and groan around them. The muffled notes of electric guitar seep in through the crack under the door. Still, every noise feels too loud, sending another wave of terrified excitement through Mark. It’s making him lose his composure, exposing this raw and pulsing thing he didn’t know resided in him. There’s something desperate about it already, in their ragged breathing, in the slide of their tongues against each other.

His hand slips beneath Tom’s shirt, skims along his ribs, and he mouths a kiss on the underside of Tom’s jaw, on the spot where he can feel his pulse, fast like butterfly wings.

“Mark”, Tom pants into his ear, already rocking his hips forward like he can’t help himself. “Don’t stop, don’t–”

“Won’t”, Mark promises, breathless himself. “But you gotta be quiet.”

Tom nods, making a promise, and immediately Mark tests his composure by sinking his teeth into the exposed line of Tom’s throat, gentle, teasing. He tastes like sweat and cheap soap, so good and familiar, and it’s enough to get Mark drunker than any shitty beer they have on tap in this place.

Tom gasps, and his blunt nails dig hard into the back of Mark’s neck. Mark imagines the shapes they leave behind, little crescent moons that he can run his own fingers over later to remember exactly how this felt.

“Fuck, how am I supposed to be quiet with you doing that?” Tom whispers, but it’s not a complaint, not at all.

“Deep breaths”, Mark suggests.

“Asshole”, Tom murmurs, but meets him in another kiss when Mark finds his lips again.

It’s always miraculous how he can get Tom so worked up so fast – he can feel how hard Tom is already when he presses a thigh between his legs. Nothing has ever compared to the feeling of being wanted by him.

Tom thrusts against him in little circular motions, seeking friction, like it’s enough, like he’s content to finish just like that. That’s not happening. They’re already this deep in it, and there’s no reason to half-ass things now. Mark pulls back a bit, searching Tom’s face, his flushed cheeks, his half-lidded eyes. There’s still a phantom hand of distant fear around Mark’s throat, but that’s all the encouragement he needs, and with shaking limbs, he slides down on the floor in front of Tom, his hands tracing the long lines of his body the entire way there.

His knees hit the tiles, and he’s never been more glad for wearing pants that cover his legs than he is in that moment, making contact with the floor of some seedy bar bathroom. He tries not to think about when the last time somebody bothered to clean up around here might’ve been. At least it’s dry. A small victory.

When he dares to look up again, Tom is staring back at him with the widest eyes, frozen against the wall.

“Is this what you wanted?” Mark asks, cringes at the shiver in his voice. His hands are wrapped around Tom’s calves, tense, and he’s fighting against the nerves that threaten to come flooding back during the brief moment of silence.

“Yes”, Tom says, sounding like he nearly chokes in his hurry to get the word out. “Yes, yes, I want that.”

Mark shouldn’t need the reassurance, not anymore, but Tom’s eagerness is a relief regardless. He takes a deep breath, glances back towards the door, checking it once more before lifting his hands up to Tom’s waist and fumbling his belt open. His fingers are trembling, but in a good way, all adrenaline and anticipation. They've never done anything quite like this. Not this bold, this insanely risky. It's fucking stupid, and Mark is fully aware of that, but there’s no denying that there’s something dangerously exciting about the concept of doing this while being barely separated from a bar full of people.

He tugs Tom’s pants down along with his underwear, letting them pool around his ankles, and the sight of him, so ready and hard and leaking, leaves Mark dizzy with desire. Tom shudders hard when Mark finally wraps a hand around his dick, presses his tongue flat against the head, laps up the pre-cum gathered there, the familiar, salty taste flooding his mouth.

“Oh, holy shit.”

He wants to draw this out, tease Tom until he’s desperate and weak-kneed, but they’ve been locked in here for too long already.

He adjusts his position on the floor to make it easier on his knees, leans forward to mouth a kiss, wet and messy, to the head of Tom’s cock before closing his lips around it. A low, barely stifled moan spills from Tom’s throat, and his hips buck forward, just slightly, before he’s able to get himself under control.

“Mark, fuck, that’s it. Feels so good.”

Mark hums in response, pinches Tom’s leg gently as a reminder for him to keep quiet, but swallows him down like he knows Tom needs him to. His own body is reacting even without any stimulation, heat building up between his legs at every ragged breath Tom takes, at the feeling of him filling his mouth. There’s a hunger in doing this, making Tom feel good, a certain high that doesn't seem to be fading even after this long.

Here's somebody willing to get his dick out in some dirty bar bathroom on his birthday just because Mark asked. He doesn’t know how he ever got so lucky, but he isn't about to dwell on it.

Then suddenly, there's a sound.

The echo of conversation right outside, someone loud and obviously inebriated, breaks him out of the pleasant haze. It’s too muffled through the door and over the music to make out any words, but close enough that Mark pulls off, fast, his heart in his throat.

He glances up at Tom and tries to listen, tries to figure out what the fuck to do in the worst case scenario.

Tom is carefully still, for a moment, two, and then his fingers slide into Mark’s hair, tugging him forward just the tiniest bit. His pupils are so big they look nearly black in the low light.

“Keep going”, he mouths.

At first, Mark is frozen in place, staring up at Tom, still holding his dick. He’s not any less hard than he was moments ago.

He’s–

This feels insane. There’s someone right there, and Tom wants–

Fuck.

Mark strokes him carefully, slowly, just once, tracing a thumb along a vein on the underside. Tom melts into it, the hold he has on Mark’s hair growing tighter momentarily. The man outside continues talking, and anxiety pinches sharp in Mark’s stomach, but Jesus Christ . His judgment might be clouded right now, but he’s never been good at denying Tom anything.

And Tom’s face, the details of him illuminated by the ugly, yellow bathroom light – his dark eyes, open mouth chanting soundless pleas – he's so beautiful. Mark can barely think straight while looking at him.

With his heart beating wildly, he slides his lips over Tom’s cock again. There’s a loud laugh right behind the door, and Tom sucks in a sharp breath. Mark feels lightheaded, half-sick at the thought of being caught, but there's something unfamiliar and intoxicating crawling up his spine, making his face grow hot and his dick strain against the fabric of his boxers.

He spreads his legs wider, hollows his cheeks, takes Tom as deep as he comfortably can before pulling back to run his tongue over the head. He curls his free hand around the back of Tom’s thigh, just to hold on to something, to feel him tremble with pleasure at the touch of his mouth.

Despite the whole thing being his idea, some part of Mark expected it to feel cheap or shameful, getting on his knees in a public bathroom, fearing that it would be fundamentally different from everything else they do together. But the way Tom's fingers thread through his hair in a gentle caress, the warm desire in the way he's looking at Mark right now is the furthest thing from cheap – like he wants him, all of him, today and tomorrow, in this place and the next.

He's still intensely aware of the voices outside, and he’s trying to keep as quiet as possible, but it's hard to keep from losing himself in it when it's like this – his head is swimming, hazy pleasure, and he presses the heel of his hand between his legs to get some friction. Even through the layers of clothes, the feeling engulfs his insides in flames, makes him moan around Tom’s dick.

It's good. It's so good. 

After what feels like an agonizing lifetime of too slow, too careful, whoever is behind the door starts walking away, the murmur of conversation fading out into nothing, and that's it.

Mark doesn’t want to take any longer, doesn't want to risk anyone coming and knocking on the door. His knees feel bruised on the hard tiles, and his jaw aches, but he doesn't have the patience to pause and take a breath. He slides his hand up to grab Tom’s ass, tugs him forward, pulls him in until his length touches the back of his throat, encouraging him to pick up the pace, take what he needs.

Tom doesn’t need to be asked twice. The rhythm of his thrusts is uneven, frantic, but Mark tries to match it, takes him eagerly and strokes him at the same time. It's rougher than he’s used to, feels daringly loud after what just happened, the tell-tale sounds of skin on skin echoing off the walls, but Mark is too turned on to care, just urges Tom to keep going and tries to relax his jaw to make it easier.

A sharp tug on his hair is the only warning he gets before Tom's coming. It's gorgeous, how he's almost too overwhelmed to keep quiet, his head tipped back against the tiles, shoving a fist over his own mouth to muffle the moan Mark knows so well by now.

Mark pulls him through it, running his hand along the length of his bare thigh until he's coming back down.

When it's over, he stands up on shaky legs, while Tom bends down unsteadily to pull his pants back up. He’s feeling sort of wrecked – pins and needles as the feeling starts returning to his legs, his dick still so hard it hurts. Despite that, he swats Tom’s hand away gently when he tries to slide it between his thighs.

“I can wait”, he says. “Let’s get back to the hotel.”

“Alright.” Tom's chest is heaving when he pulls Mark in. “That was so hot. I can't believe you. I’m gonna jack off to this like a million times.”

“That was fucking insane”, Mark breathes, but welcomes the kiss Tom presses to his lips, wraps an arms around his waist to hold him close a moment longer. The things he’s willing to do. “Happy birthday, dude.”

4.

“Hey, you’re here.”

It's a few moments before Mark is able to lift his head from his hands and look at Tom at all, and he breathes, breathes, breathes through the waves of frustration, the sharp humiliation of having a moment like this at a fucking wedding reception, the happiest day of somebody’s life.

“Travis?” he asks, muffled by his palms, but he already knows the answer. Their drummer is a fucking snitch, and Mark is going to fire him the second he’s sober again.

“Yep”, Tom says. There’s a creak of metal as he settles down in the pool chair next to Mark.

Yeah. Fuck.

Mark should've known he wasn’t going to be let off that easy.

Everything’s quiet for a few moments, except for the faint sounds of music and laughter carrying through the glass doors from the building behind them, and the tiny waves splashing against the edges of the pool in the evening breeze. Mark can hear Tom waiting for him to say something, anything, give him an explanation. He doesn’t know what he can say when he’s already regretting letting any of it spill past the cracks in the first place.

He doesn’t want a conversation. He wants another drink, maybe two, maybe a shot of tequila to chase them down with – a reliable recipe for blacking out. He wants to puke in a trash can and forget this whole night so Tom stops staring at him and waiting for him to tell him what’s on his mind.

Mark spreads his fingers carefully to peek through the gaps. Watches the ripples in the pool, hypnotic blue.

Tom’s silence is loud. Mark can't put off the inevitable any longer – the only escape he can currently think of is the last-ditch attempt to drown himself in the pool, but he doesn’t think he’s that dramatic. Besides, the water looks shallow enough that he'd probably just embarrass himself further.

He turns to look at Tom, finally, and almost laughs at the sight, because the expression he's wearing is the exact one Mark imagined. Tightly furrowed brows, downturned mouth, poorly concealed concern shining through. Being able to predict Tom's reactions so accurately is still a little jarring sometimes, as familiar as looking in a mirror.

“What did he say?”

Tom shrugs, uncomfortable. “Just that you, uh. Maybe needed some company.”

“I'm fine”, Mark says, then thinks, just a fucking idiot. “I just wanted a moment away from all that.”

“You want me to go?”

Mark doesn’t, not really, not when it's Tom. “No, I just… I'm gonna stay out here for a minute.”

“I get it”, Tom nods, leans back in the pool chair like he's planning to get a nice tan with the moon and stars out, in the middle of the night. “Peace and quiet.”

“With you around?” Mark asks. “Like that's gonna happen.”

He knocks his knee against Tom's to make sure he knows he’s just being a dick, that he really does want him to stay. Forever, if it was up to him, as lovesick as that makes him sound. If he could ask for that – if he thought it would make a difference – he would.

Mark’s stomach clenches hard at the thought, dread and pitch-black gloom that doesn’t belong in a wedding. He pushes the heel of his hand into his eye, leans forward to drop his head between his knees. The motion slings his drunk brain around in his skull, making him momentarily dizzy. Maybe it’s a good thing that he didn’t have that last shot of tequila, after all.

There’s a tap on his thigh, feather-light and careful.

“Mark.” Tom’s voice comes through the waves, underwater, far away. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t know”, he says, and it’s not exactly true, but he doesn’t know what else to say, either.

Less than half an hour ago they were back inside, watching the newly married couple feed each other slices of wedding cake, nothing but love and affection in the way they looked at each other despite the huge mess they were making in the process. Their joy was infectious, the party in full swing, making it difficult for anybody to not be in relatively good spirits. They were sitting at a table in the corner of the room, in their own group – Mark, Tom, Travis and his girlfriend – cheering and hollering at the scene before them and eating their own desserts.

Travis, never the one for cheesy, public romantic gestures, looked downright hilariously awkward as Melissa attempted to feed him cake with her own fork, and soon Mark and Tom were fully focused on making fun of their friend. The whole thing devolved into the two of them smearing cake all over each other’s faces while trying to imitate this display of affection, Travis’ discomfort melting into a smile, and Melissa shaking her head in amused disapproval.

It wasn’t until Tom got up to clean off the frosting Mark had managed to drop on his shirt that the laughter settled down into something quiet and comfortable. Mark picked up a napkin to wipe the remnants of cake off his own face, his smile lingering as he watched Tom disappear into the hallway leading to the bathrooms.

“You know–”

Mark, lost in his thoughts and so far unaware that somebody had been watching him, straightened in surprise and spun around in his chair to answer. “Huh?”

Travis sighed like Mark making him repeat himself was somehow an unreasonable task, but the barely-there smile pulling at his lips betrayed his amusement. His gaze slid past Mark, to the direction of the doorway Tom had just walked through.

“You know , I’ve been to a few weddings, but sometimes I look at you two and think you’re more in love than most of the people who read their vows in front of God and all.”

And Mark knew it was supposed to be a joke, a funny little remark about how they’re joined at the hip, as close as a couple, the weird best friends with nonexistent boundaries, but he found that he didn’t feel at all like laughing. 

Not right then, not with everything.

His face must have given him away, because Travis’ expression turned apologetic almost immediately.

“Shit, dude. I didn’t mean to–” he began, then fell quiet, casting a quick look at Melissa.

Mark balled up the napkin in his fist, unwilling to meet Travis’ eyes. “No, it’s fine.”

Silence stretched between them, tense and awkward. Mark should’ve just brushed it off, taken it as the joke it was meant to be, but he’d been too caught off guard and now it was too late to pretend he saw the humor in it. That it didn’t sting the way it did. Suddenly the cheer of the party was trickling out of him like there was a leak somewhere, steadily replaced by a feeling of defeat that he’d gotten to know all too well lately, by unexpected shame.

“I’m just–” he said, rising from his seat, sweating under the bright ceiling lights. “I’m gonna go get another drink.”

Travis pushed his chair back, hesitant, unwilling to call him out on it with Melissa there, but Mark held up a hand. It wasn’t on Travis, and he didn’t want him to feel guilty, but he didn’t want the company, either. More than anything, he couldn't take the pity.

“It’s fine. Be right back.”

“You sure?”

“Give me a minute”, he said, final, more of a plea than a demand.

Travis didn’t push it further, just settled back into a conversation with his girlfriend, but kept glancing in Mark’s direction as he walked stiffly into the direction of the drink table. He did get another drink – a glass of wine, downed in two mouthfuls – but instead of going back, he continued down the hallway, through the door and outside, and sat on the edge of the empty swimming pool in the backyard.

He needed to be alone.

It’s where Tom found him soon after, curled up on a pool chair, where he’s now asking him questions he has no simple answers to. This is the one thing he’s never known how to talk to Tom about, and has never particularly wanted to, either.

“You were fine earlier”, Tom presses. “Did something happen?”

Mark shakes his head, looking away from Tom again, at the water, at the blue and white ornamental tiles in a neat line along the edge. “I’m just being fucking stupid.”

He always used to feel weird at parties, back when he was a teenager, in the first years of high school. He was awkward and unsure and achingly lonely after too long of mostly keeping himself company, still trying to navigate the seas everybody else seemed to have gotten used to long before him. It only got better when he discovered his passion for music and started connecting with people over it. Playing gave him confidence in a way nothing had done before.

Sometimes those feelings, fears of being the only one that doesn’t belong, come back like echoes, like after nearly three decades on this earth he still hasn’t finished growing into his own skin.

As much as he’s never been a fan of huge parties – at least not the aspect of getting drunk off his ass and embarrassing himself by getting on the dancefloor – he’s never felt uncomfortable being at one with Tom, never felt alone like he did in high school.

And now it’s–

“Come on. Don’t try that shit with me.”

“Leave it.”

“Mark–”

“Don’t–” The word comes out with a sharp exhale, a sad imitation of a laugh. He doesn’t want this. “It’s nothing. I’m just drunk.”

Tom hesitates, and Mark can almost hear him considering his approach. “Dude, I’m… worried. Travis seemed worried.”

“Travis should probably focus on his girlfriend”, Mark says, and then, in a moment of pathetic self-pity, before he can consider it enough to stop himself: “You probably should too. Invite her next time so you won’t need to deal with this bullshit.”

Immediately, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. He turns back to Tom, just in time to see the expression drop from his face completely, a careful blankness taking its place. Tom pulls away from him, turns his body so that he’s facing the pool rather than Mark.

Mark’s stomach lurches, a sobering sensation. The cold sweat along his spine is back. He’s just made things a thousand times worse.

“Tom”, he says, voice thin. “Fuck, you know I don’t mean– You know I don’t.”

“That’s not fair”, Tom says, barely audible even in the night’s silence.

And it isn't. He knows it isn't.

Mark never should’ve let that slip out of the tight knot he keeps those feelings in, but it’s this whole night, the wedding , the alcohol, the looming feeling of anxiety that never seems to dissipate completely these days.

“I know. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Tom shakes his head, still looking at something in the water. “You know I’m not fucking stupid, right? I know how you feel about all that.”

“I know”, Mark repeats, because even though he doubts Tom knows exactly how he feels about it, he isn’t completely clueless. “Forget I said anything. Let’s just go back inside.”

“You can’t do that”, Tom says, turning back towards him. There’s an edge of pleading to the words. “You can’t say that and make me feel like shit and then tell me to forget it. That’s not how it works.”

“It’s not–”

“I never fucking know what you want to hear.”

That punches any response Mark might’ve had right out of him. It’s a pointless conversation to have, and they both know it, but now that it’s been let out into the open, it takes up all the space between the two of them. This might be the first time either of them has said it out loud instead of letting the heavy thing hang in the air, only acknowledging it with badly veiled insinuations, strained silences, uneasy eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

There isn’t much else to say.

Tom sighs. “Is this what tonight’s been about?” 

It's careful, gentle, and Mark can barely take hearing it right now.

He lifts one shoulder, barely a shrug, a response he knows Tom will understand, anyway. Any answer he gives will serve nothing but to make both of them feel worse. He’s not used to tiptoeing around Tom, but things have been feeling too fragile lately, too close to some edge over which he can’t see, and it scares him to death.

To Mark, the thing between them has always felt like a continuation of him. Even before the pieces clicked into place, when they were still dancing around it, unsure and afraid, being with Tom was the one thing that made sense, and there was a time when he barely spared two moments to worry about where they were going.

Now he can’t stop the doubts from creeping in.

He doesn’t know how long this can last anymore, the two of them, what kind of future there is ever going to be for them in a business like this. It’s never been uncomplicated, but the older they get, the more evident it is how much they both yearn for something safe, something more sustainable than whatever it is they can offer each other.

A house, a kid, a stable life outside of touring. A real marriage. 

The thought makes Mark feel cracked open, hollowed out. 

Like what they have isn’t real. Like that would make losing it any easier.

There’s been other people – girls – mostly for show, dates for events and short-lived relationships, but nothing that has lasted longer than a couple of months. Nothing that has made him feel like it could become a fracture between him and Tom. 

Now Tom has reconnected with someone he knew back in high school. It’s a what-might-have-been situation, and Tom speaks of her fondly, the same way he did back then, but now Mark recognizes the tinge of longing in his words. He knows she’d marry Tom in a heartbeat if he asked.

“Mark”, Tom says after a long stretch of silence, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I know it’s… I wish that it was different, too.”

He looks tired and miserable, and Mark doesn’t want to make him feel any worse. He doesn’t deserve that.

He would be a fucking hypocrite to blame Tom for it, for wanting something like that. He does, too. But he doesn’t have a high school sweetheart to distract him from the mass of black, poisonous jealousy growing inside him when he thinks about it for too long.

“I know”, he says, for the hundredth time tonight, and it tastes like defeat. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. Not here.”

They sit in silence again. A new star blinks into existence high above the rows of houses, lights up another spot in the near-black sky. They’re both tired and they’re both sorry and it doesn’t make a difference at all.

Inside, the party goes on without them. 

“Come on”, Mark says eventually, glancing back at the house. “We should probably be getting back. Travis will think we’ve drowned out here.”

Tom’s hand lands on his wrist. “No, wait.”

“What? Why?”

Tom hesitates for a moment, uncertainty evident on his face. “Let’s just… We don’t need to go yet. I want a moment alone with you.”

Despite everything, it’s charming. Mark lets himself be pulled out of the chair, led to the other side of the pool instead of back towards the house, into a spot invisible to anyone who might be looking out of a window.

“Come here”, Tom says, tugs him close.

He's illuminated only by the pool lights, flickering turquoise, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face, something enormously sad just underneath it. Mark’s heart clenches in his chest.

He presses himself against Tom, and there’s a wave of relief when Tom wraps his arms around him, one hand coming to rest on his waist, the other flat between his shoulder blades. This can’t last for too long, and Mark will take any scrap of a moment he can get. He brings his own arms around Tom’s shoulders to return the embrace, then lets out a surprised laugh when Tom starts swaying them in time with the faint music carrying from the house.

“What are you doing?”

“Dancing”, Tom says, like it’s that simple, like it’s something they do all the time. “It’s a wedding.”

The song playing is definitely a wrong one for slow dancing, and it almost feels like pretending, after the conversation they just had, with the things that are heavy on both of their minds. Mark knows Tom doesn’t mean it like that. It’s evident from the fragile, hopeful smile on his face that Tom’s just trying to make him feel better.

“Alright”, Mark says, leaning into him, resting his cheek on Tom’s shoulder, his face half-tucked into the curve of Tom’s neck.

He can feel the steady rhythm of Tom’s heart, the warmth radiating from him even through his dress shirt. This close, the smell of his cologne overpowers everything else, and Mark closes his eyes. He just wants to feel. 

When Tom starts rocking them side to side again, slowly, clumsily, it gets hard to breathe.

It catches Mark off guard, the way his lungs fill up to the brim with emotion, and his throat closes up. He tries to choke it down, pretend that the wet, shaky breath he draws against Tom’s skin means nothing.

Tom seems to know, anyway, because he strokes careful fingers over the knobs of his spine, at the base of his neck. His lips brush against Mark’s forehead, a ghost of a kiss, but it feels like too much, and he has to bite down on his tongue to keep the tears at bay. Tom has always been skilled at peeling back the layers, getting to the soft, shivering core of him, and Mark has always been helpless to stop him.

With the way things are now, he’s not sure how much comfort there is to be found in that.

Mark links his own hands together behind Tom’s head, holds on harder. Tom’s fingers wander past the collar of his shirt, soft against bare skin. Their bodies move together, their feet planted firmly on the ground. It’s barely even dancing, a strange contrast to the fast-paced song playing inside.

Mark has known it might end like this for longer than he’s been willing to admit it to himself. That doesn’t make it hurt any less, doesn’t alleviate the clawing fear that sooner or later he’s going to be leaving one of these parties alone.

He doesn’t want it to be tonight. He wants to go home with Tom and forget, hold on just a little while longer.

He wants to pretend this can last forever.

They sway together by the pool for one more song, both of them quiet. There’s nothing to say.

5.

It's about twenty minutes to midnight, less than half an hour until the start of 2010, and Mark is sipping sparkling wine in a friend's living room in Los Angeles. The house is packed, buzzing with conversation, the sounds of glasses clinking, the distant booms of fireworks carrying from outside.

Tom’s been getting gradually more and more social with every drink he’s had, and Mark has been watching him meet at least seven new people during the last hour alone. Tom’s always been like that, making connections and effortlessly diving into deep conversations with anyone and everyone. Even the people that don’t know anything about Tom find him fascinating, easy to talk to, just the right combination of weird and relatable.

Now he's cornered some poor bastard by the canapés, probably telling him all about the great mysteries of the cosmos.

When he sees Mark looking – too fondly, probably –  he lets the guy go and comes over to where Mark is sitting, squeezes into the seat next to him. The sparkling wine sloshes around in his glass, some spilling over the rim and on his fingers.

“Hi”, Tom says, grinning, all teeth, like he can’t help it. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

The stupid, tipsy flirting shouldn’t be as charming as it is.

“Did you recruit that guy into your group of UFO conspiracists? You know those weird lights outside are just fireworks, right?”

Tom elbows him, almost making him spill his own drink. “He’s filling out the registration form right now.”

Mark shakes his head, but switches the glass from one hand to the other to lean into Tom’s side. “Are we ever getting invited to another party again?”

“Hey, I save the gnarly stuff for the secret meetings.”

Mark doesn’t doubt that for a second. He’s sure most people would attend a secret meeting just for the chance to hear Tom talk about something, even if they couldn't care less about aliens. There’s an endless list of interesting things about Tom, and the surface level stuff, the parts that are visible to everybody, are only a tiny flicker of it.

“God, you are so weird.”

Tom gives him a little eyebrow wiggle and downs his drink. “From you, that’s code for God, Tom, you are so incredibly sexy, please take your pants off right now.”

“I think you need to slow down”, Mark says, nodding at the empty glass, but he can’t conceal his smile.

“It’s almost midnight. I think you need to pick up the pace.”

It’s an echo of a conversation Mark remembers them having numerous times before, back when they used to attend house parties, get wasted with their crew and the other bands on the road when there was downtime between shows. Mark was rarely as eager to drink himself half to death as some of the other guys seemed to be. When they were kids, he usually wanted to be a little less drunk than Tom, just in case.

Sometimes, maybe, he’s worried about the walls that might come down with too much alcohol.

“I can’t believe I’m being peer pressured”, he says, but takes another sip. 

He’s only slightly buzzed despite it being so late, but Tom’s thigh pressed along his in the too-small seat is awakening another kind of warmth in him, a hum under his skin that he’s known since forever.

The house is full of people, loud and drunk and happy. In a way, Mark still feels like it’s only him and Tom.

There’s a door to a balcony on the other side of the living room, the big windows getting illuminated by colorful flashes every once in a while. Since it’s nearing midnight, the fireworks are getting more frequent.

“You wanna go outside?” Mark asks. “Get some fresh air?”

“I know what you’re up to”, Tom says, chiding, without missing a beat. “You’re just trying to get me alone.”

“You caught me.”

“I am not that easy, Mark Hoppus”, Tom tells him, but there’s a spark of playfulness, a hint of real desire in his eyes.

Mark lowers his voice, leans closer to keep anybody else from hearing. “I remember you being that easy on more than a few occasions.”

Tom’s laugh is bright and real, pulled out of him even easier than usual after a couple of drinks. Mark doesn’t stand a chance.

The noise of the conversation quiets down and the blasts of the rockets get more clear when the balcony door closes, cool night air caressing their faces. Mark glances at his watch. Sixteen minutes. People will be gathering outside soon to see the beginning of the new year, either here or in the front yard.

They’ll have a few moments alone.

Mark leans against the railing, and Tom settles to his side, close enough for their elbows to brush against each other occasionally. Tom grabbed a near-empty bottle of sparkling wine on their way out, and is now taking swigs from it instead of a glass.

There’s another whistle, another explosion. Purple sparks shower down from the sky.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Tom asks, knocking into him to get his attention.

“I’m not–” Mark says on instinct, before he realizes he’s been gazing into the distance for the past minute, at least. “I’m just… I don’t know. Thinking about how the hell it’s been another year already.”

And what a year it’s been. Blink is ready to take on the world again, something Mark didn’t think possible less than two years ago. He and Tom are–

Being with Tom again feels like free-falling – frightening and exhilarating, and Mark doesn’t know if he’ll be hitting the ground soon. Sometimes, still, there’s the irrational fear that Tom is doing this out of some lingering guilt over how things ended last time, and that he’ll be out the door the second his conscience is clear.

Tom makes a noise of agreement. “I know. Fucking crazy. Never thought we’d be here again.”

Mark isn’t sure if he’s talking about the band, or about them. Both are equally true. “Me neither.”

“I’m almost…” Tom pauses, searches for words. “This year’s been huge. Feels like the next one’s gonna be even bigger, we’ve got all these expectations, you know? It’s kind of scary.”

Mark understands what he means, and he knows Tom has even more on his plate with two bands he’s balancing full-time. “We’ll take it easy with this album, like we talked about. Do it at our own pace, no rush.”

“Yeah. No rush.”

“It's been a fun year too, right? Not just crazy?”

Tom smiles. “Fuck, it has. I've missed doing this with you guys. It's like riding a bike. You think you forgot how to, and then–” He waves a hand. “Like no time has passed at all.”

Mark hums in half-hearted agreement. He's sure his and Tom's recollections of the time between are a little different. Tom walked out, went on to pursue something he was passionate about, and it’s not like Mark's done nothing worthwhile over the past few years, but he spent most of them dragging the weight of Tom’s departure with him, wishing things could've been different. He’s not angry about it now, but he's never been good at forgetting, either.

“I missed it too”, he says quietly, and nothing could be more true.

“It’s gonna be good.” Tom raises the bottle at him, a strange reassurance in the gesture, before he clarifies: “Next year. Here’s to… writing the best fucking record the world has ever seen. And having lots of great sex.”

Mark laughs, surprised out of his wistful thoughts. “Sure, those are the important parts.”

“Don’t act like those two aren’t at the top of your list. Actually, that’s how we should be starting the year. Just to make sure we get it right, you know?”

“What, with music or with sex?”

Tom’s raised eyebrows are answer enough.

Mark fixes him with a skeptical look. “Tom, are you trying to suggest we fuck on someone’s balcony?”

“Might jinx the whole thing otherwise.”

“Right.”

“Some tasteful, over the clothes action would be enough for me.”

“I think most people expect a kiss at midnight, not a handjob.”

“I mean”, Tom says. “If you want to be romantic about it, I'm not gonna complain.”

He's joking, teasing like they always do, batting his eyelashes, the bottle lingering on his lips like it's their first date and he’s suddenly all sweet and shy and not somebody who regularly says some of the most outrageously nasty things Mark has ever heard.

Still, there’s something soft and careful in the tone of his voice. As if it's something he’s asking. And that’s… 

Mark shifts on his feet, lets the words hang in the air. It isn't like he’s opposed, but they might be in the wrong place for that. He’s bothered by the fact that he can’t be sure what Tom is thinking, what he wants right now.

They haven’t talked about this enough, he knows that, and it’s Mark’s own fault as much as it is Tom’s. He never used to feel like they needed to, because they knew each other so intimately it was like reading each other’s minds most of the time.

Until it wasn’t.

“You know I–” Tom begins, breaking the silence, then cuts himself off mid-sentence and seems to change directions. “Forget it. I’m just saying shit. Probably better if we don’t fuck on anyone’s balcony.”

The joke seems genuine, and there’s no detectable hurt or disappointment beneath the surface, but Mark feels a stab of guilt regardless. “Probably.”

“Eight minutes.”

“What?”

“Eight minutes ‘til midnight. Getting close.”

“Oh, right.”

“You got any New Year’s resolutions?” Tom asks. “Other than writing the best album ever?”

It's an unexpected question. New Year’s resolutions are not the kind of thing either of them subscribes to, and Mark recognizes it as an attempt to direct the conversation back to trivial subjects rather than as genuine curiosity. He thinks about making another stupid joke, most likely involving his dick and Tom’s mother, but it doesn’t even land in his own head. The beginning year is an uneasy knot at the bottom of his stomach, and he thinks it’s supposed to feel like a new start, a clean slate. Instead, he feels like he’s crashing into it in the middle of everything, anxious and unfinished.

Things are good, but they’re also complicated. Being in love with Tom has been a wound that never completely heals for the longest time.

“I haven’t thought of anything”, he says, truthfully. “But, uh. I think I’d like to be better at this.” At Tom’s blank stare, he elaborates: “This. You and me. I want to do it right this time.”

Tom is unable to conceal his surprise at that. “Wow. That’s…”

“I know how that sounds”, Mark says, backtracking, suddenly self-conscious. “Should probably stick to something like ‘I’ll start drinking green smoothies’.”

“Dude, no.” Tom hurries to reassure him. He still sounds sort of taken aback. “That’s a good one. Maybe I should steal it.”

Just like that, the knot feels a little looser. Mark lets himself fully look at Tom again, and he sees nothing but fondness, cautious relief that mirrors his own.

“You think it’s gonna be that simple for us? Acting like adults?”

“Hey, I’m an adult most of the time now.”

“If we’re being generous.”

“So our chances are maybe like, sixty-forty?”

Mark laughs despite himself. “Jesus. Something like that.”

Silently, Tom leans into his shoulder. His hand seeks out Mark’s where it’s resting on the railing, brushing over the bone in his wrist, tentative, grounding, before slotting itself over his knuckles. His palm is a little damp from the condensation from the bottle.

They’re so close that Mark only has to turn his head slightly to brush his nose against Tom’s cheek. He lingers there, waiting for a reaction, for permission, anything, until he feels Tom’s breath ghosting over his lips.

He fights against the urge to glance back at the window behind them, at the living room. They all probably know, anyway.

The kiss is soft and dry, the last remnants of sparkling wine on their lips, and when Mark closes his eyes, he can see the flashes of the fireworks on the backs of his eyelids.

It doesn’t last long at all, doesn't feel like a huge, romantic gesture, not at all like a movie. Still, Mark feels it deep in his belly, something taking root, and he thinks that this is as good a place to start trying as any.

+1.

The roar of the crowd fades out slowly as they walk away from the stage, deafening screams shrinking down to nothing but echoes. Mark pulls the in-ear monitors out, slowing down his steps to make sure the cord doesn’t get tangled. Tom’s been walking a few feet ahead of him, but now he’s standing near the wall to let people pass, making sure Mark catches up to him.

Tom is still blinking away tears, but he has the widest smile on his face. Mark’s heart swells in his chest at the sight of him, bright and aching and helpless, and he can’t close the distance between them fast enough.

“Fuck, this is–”, Tom says, and Mark doesn’t give him the chance to continue before he crashes into him, there in the middle of the hallway, pulls him into a tight embrace.

Tom’s arms are around him immediately, like instinct, his face warm in the crook of Mark’s neck. Briefly, Mark threads his fingers through the curls sticking out from under Tom’s hat, holding onto him hard, breathing in the familiar, grounding comfort that being close to Tom always provides.

They did this on stage already, all three of them, threw their arms around each other, hugged before the sea of cheering people, but he needs this, one moment with Tom without an audience to witness it. He’s unable to wait until they get back to the hotel, or even in one of their dressing rooms – he’s feeling overwhelmed, cracked open in about seven different ways, most of them good. His own eyes have been misty from the first notes of the last song, and he has fully neither started nor stopped crying since then.

Tom’s the same – he needs this too, and he welcomes the touch without hesitation.

“You okay?” Mark asks when he pulls back, his hand still lingering around Tom’s face, resisting the urge to brush away a stray piece of hair from his forehead, keep touching him, make sure he’s alright.

“Yeah”, Tom sighs, a little breathless. “Yeah, I’m gonna be fine. Are you?”

Mark nods, giving Tom’s shoulder a squeeze. “I'm… yeah. That was a lot. You were so good out there, dude. Fucking incredible.”

Tom ducks his head at the praise, pleased, wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. They’ve both had to get used to crying on stage embarrassingly often during the past year.

“Shut up, are you kidding? Couldn't take my eyes off you. Hot and talented, how's that fair?”

The look on his face makes Mark want to kiss him so badly he feels dizzy with it. He can’t help but return the teasing. “If this is you trying to take me home tonight…”

“Then it's working?”

“It is”, Mark laughs. “Unfortunately.”

“Can’t believe that’s it”, Tom says, shaking his head. There’s a note of sadness in it, despite his smile. “Last show.”

“God, I know. What the hell happens now?”

The tour is done, and the end of it seems ridiculously abrupt compared to the long, nervous weeks they spent preparing for it. It doesn’t make sense to him that the next step is to start packing up the equipment to be put into storage or to take home with them.

The next step is going home, back to California.

They all need a break, time to rest and write more music and focus on other projects, Mark knows that. It's still unreal, bittersweet in the way saying goodbye to a tour always is, and it's hard to even describe how much this one has meant to them. It's been about growing and healing and coming back to something you've loved since forever, and as cliche as it sounds, Mark feels like he’s a better person for it. He feels more complete, at peace with himself in a way he hasn't been in years.

He's equally grateful and sad about seeing everything come to an end.

“Right now?” Tom asks, looking around, watching people walk past, busy and in good spirits. “I guess we should celebrate. We've earned it.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Got a couple of bottles of wine in my dressing room, if you want.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“We could stay here for a bit, mingle and shit, have a good time.”

Mark hesitates. They’re both gross and sweaty from the show, tired from an hour and a half of giving their all on stage, and Mark knows he’s going to crash so hard once the post-show adrenaline begins to fade, when he's showered and under the covers. He’s still feeling too vulnerable after baring his soul in front of thousands of people again, weird about this being the last night. He's not sure how much energy he has left in him for a big party, no matter how dear all these people are to him.

Tom catches on, of course, without him even opening his mouth. “We don't have to.”

“No, dude, if you–”

“Mark”, Tom interrupts, gentle. “I don’t care. I just want tonight to be a good memory.”

“Already is”, Mark assures him. “As long as you’re here, it is.”

Tom swallows hard, and Mark knows he’s pushing down emotion. They’re both on the edge right now. “I know the last night is always kind of hard, but I don’t wanna think about that right now. I don’t want you to have to think about that. So whatever you need.”

Mark loves him so much that words don't feel like enough sometimes. The burning sensation is back in his eyes, in his throat, but it’s momentary and distant.

“Alright”, he says. “I think I just want to be alone with you tonight.”

Tom smiles, wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulders again. “Okay. Let’s get going, we'll have a party of our own.”

They say their goodbyes and take a car back to the hotel. Everyone seems to understand their desire to leave early, and nobody tries to persuade them to stay. 

They lean into each other in the backseat, quiet and tired, and Mark barely registers the route they're taking, the scenery flying past outside the windows. All he knows is Tom's warmth, his fingers tracing a seam along his thigh in a soothing motion. He closes his eyes for what feels like ten seconds, and when he opens them again, they're pulling up to the hotel.

Soon, the door of their room closes behind them, shutting the rest of the world outside.

“All good?” Tom checks, taking in Mark’s exhausted expression.

 The past few hours are still ringing in Mark’s ears, his body is aching, and he can feel the dried sweat like a film of grime on his skin, but he barely cares.

Tom is all he wants right now. Everything else fades into the background.

Mark pulls him down for a reassuring kiss. “Yeah, all good. Just tired.”

“Too tired to party?” Tom mumbles against his lips. He brings his hand to cup Mark’s cheek, doesn't let him stray too far.

“Too old to party. At least like we used to. Jesus, you remember some of the shit we used to do on tour?”

Tom winces, reminded of less responsible periods in their lives. Freedom and boredom used to be great incentives for getting in trouble. “To be fair, other bands set that example, we just followed. But, uh, yeah. I remember a few messes we might’ve left behind.”

“So if you want to trash this hotel room, I think I’m gonna opt out.”

“Alright. Then I need to make a call and cancel the strippers and cocaine. We'll figure something else out.”

“You never invited me to those parties”, Mark says. “Is there something else you wanna tell me about your wild, wild life?”

“Mm, maybe.” Tom's hand drops down to Mark's waist, squeezing playfully. “Take me to bed and find out.”

It’s an offer Mark isn’t going to refuse. He leads Tom further into the room, towards the bed, unhurried but purposeful, letting his hands wander along the length of Tom’s back on the way, tracing the familiar shapes of his body through the clothes. They only pause in order to kick their shoes off, flick on the light above the bedside table, before tumbling onto the mattress in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs.

“C’mere”, Tom murmurs, throwing his hat aside to lie back more comfortably, inviting Mark closer not only with words, but with a smile that’s just a bit too soft to be properly seductive.

Mark is pressed to Tom’s side immediately, propped on one elbow to lean over him and kiss him again. His other hand is already tugging the hem of Tom’s shirt loose where it’s tucked into the waistband of his jeans, sliding under the fabric and over the softness of Tom’s belly. His skin is warm to the touch, and Mark can feel how his muscles tense up slightly, part anticipation and part quiet laughter.

Tom lifts his head to press his lips to the underside of Mark’s jaw – dry, little pecks that soon turn more heated, a trail of them down his neck. His hand finds the back of Mark’s head to hold him in place, while his mouth, wet and hot and open, focuses on the hollow of his throat, a particularly sensitive spot.

When Tom’s stubble scratches roughly against the same spot, Mark lets out a stuttery exhale. The feeling sends shivers in waves from the point of contact. “Oh, that feels good.”

Tom’s answer is a pleased little laugh, and Mark feels vibrations of it throughout his body. Like this, the fact that the tour ended tonight, that they’re saying goodbye to something so precious, that they were both teary-eyed for a good while both before the show and after it, is almost easy to forget.

There have been times when the last show of a tour was synonymous with going back to an empty house, to deafening silence and loneliness. It was something Mark used to dread, knowing that there would be no one waiting for him.

Now, he isn’t leaving alone, and the sadness that comes with ending this chapter in their lives is more bittersweet than crushing. Going back to California with Tom will always feel more like coming home than going back alone ever did.

“You’re so–”, he sighs, brings his hand to Tom’s cheek. “Tom. Thank you.”

Tom laughs again, tinged with surprise, and pulls back slightly. “For what?”

Mark meets his eyes. His face feels flushed, head pleasantly heavy already, a mix of tiredness and awakening arousal. “I don’t know. For being you, for being here. Everything.”

“Hey”, Tom says. His face is alight with affection. “Of course. I'm always gonna be here.”

Neither of them has ever been that great at making promises. Well, actually, they’ve been experts at making them, less so at keeping them, especially the kind that involve some variation of always or forever.

Mark thought they were ready to figure it out last time, and maybe he trusted it too much back then. The memory feels grainy now, altered by the years – the two of them on someone’s balcony on New Year’s Eve nearly fifteen years ago, making a tentative promise to try harder this time around. Attempting not to break each other’s hearts.

It’s like a lifetime has passed since that night. There’s so much about the person Mark was at the time that he doesn’t even recognize now, and it’s frightening, but mostly it’s a comfort.

“I know”, he says, stroking a thumb over Tom’s temple. It’s the spot where his graying hair is the most noticeable, and it looks so good on him, the contrast of white in the dark strands that curl over his ears. “This is just… You know. Today.”

“Yeah”, Tom says. “I know how it feels. Fuck, I’m so glad you’re here, too.”

“I think I really needed this”, Mark confesses, closing his eyes momentarily until the weight of it passes. “Just being with you. I don’t think I could’ve handled some huge party tonight.”

Tom doesn’t say anything else, and Mark knows that he gets it. Tom understands what it’s like to feel this fragile, to need someone holding you through the storm of it. Tom pulls him into another kiss, and at first it’s comfort, reassurance, but it turns filthy fast, sharp and open-mouthed.

When Mark hooks his leg over Tom’s hips to bring their bodies flush together, grind his hardening dick against his thigh, Tom’s hands fly to the small of his back, finding the patch of exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up.

“God, that’s hot”, Tom pants into his mouth, pulls Mark’s hips down harder. “Fuck, I need– Need more.”

“Alright”, Mark says. “Let me–”

He pulls back to peel Tom’s shirt off completely, exposing his stomach, his chest, steadily rising and falling with the deep breaths he’s taking. Mark taps his hip gently, signaling for him to lift up, slides further down on the bed so that he can tug his jeans and boxers down. 

He folds one of Tom’s legs up, to the side, making sure the clothes don’t get tangled, drops a soft kiss to the inside of his bare knee. The jeans get discarded on the floor somewhere, and Mark can turn his full attention to Tom, who is lying back against the pillows – long limbs, tanned skin, all of him beautiful. He’s not fully hard yet, but the beginnings of his arousal are evident when Mark’s gaze travels between his legs, his dick nestled in the dark curls there.

Tom pulls at his shoulder, the fabric of his t-shirt, impatient as always. “Come on. Lemme see you.”

Mark kneels between Tom’s bent legs, pulls his own shirt over his head so hurriedly it almost takes his glasses with it. When they lock eyes again, Tom’s lips are pulled into a barely-there smile, intense and appreciative, and Mark is ready to lose his mind all over again.

“What do you want?” Mark asks him, runs his palm up his thigh, right up until the crease between his leg and his belly, just close enough to tease, and it makes Tom’s knees fall wider apart. “Anything. Just wanna make you feel good.”

Tom hums, as if he’s considering, but there’s undeniable eagerness in it. “Want you to fuck me.”

Heat pools in Mark’s stomach immediately. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, if you–”

“‘Course I want to.” Mark lowers himself on top of Tom to reach his lips once more. “Jesus. You’re crazy for even trying to ask me that.”

Tom’s answer is muffled by the fervent kiss Mark presses to his lips before he has to climb off the bed to kick off his own pants and dig the lube from one of their bags. It's in the closest one – thank fuck – and Mark wastes no time kneeling between Tom’s legs again.

He wraps his fingers around Tom's cock, half-hard, the first drops of pre-cum glistening at the tip, and it pulls a sigh of relief out of Tom. Encouraged by the response, he begins stroking him with practiced motions. 

It's not long before Tom's urging him to hurry up, kicking at Mark’s hip lightly. “Come on, fuck. Need more. Mark, your fingers.”

“So eager”, Mark laughs, reaching for the lube.

“Dude, I don’t wanna come before you get your dick in me.”

“We’re getting there”, Mark assures him. “Just relax.” 

He runs his hand along Tom's thigh in a soothing motion, gently coaxing his leg up towards his body at the same time. His slick fingers find Tom’s entrance, requesting permission with a soft touch, and holds Tom’s gaze when he pushes in slowly.

Tom shudders, so hard Mark can see his whole body jerk with the force of it, but it isn’t discomfort – his head tips back against the pillows, and his mouth drops open with a soft moan.

“Good?” Mark asks anyway, because he wants Tom to tell him, wants to hear his voice, tinged with pleasure like it always gets when they do this.

“So good”, Tom confirms, peering down at Mark with half-lidded eyes.

Tom opens up for him easily, back arched in pleasure, and soon Mark’s moving with more purpose, pressing his fingers deeper, both down to the last knuckle. Tom is grinding down against him, his own fingers flexing against the sheets like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he’s already fighting to keep his composure.

Every noise Tom makes, every twitch of his hips adds to Mark's own arousal, and he can’t help himself – he bends down to mouth at Tom’s erection, uncoordinated while he tries to focus on keeping the rhythm of his hand, trailing his tongue along the length of it.

“Fuck ”, Tom gasps, a sharp sound, his hips lifting off the mattress. “You dick, you know how much I–”

The sentence melts into a moan when Mark closes his lips around the head of his cock, only briefly, a few seconds of pleasure. He doesn’t want to push Tom too close to the edge yet.

“God, you look so good like that”, Mark breathes, taking in the sight of him – heaving chest, shiny with sweat, messy curls sticking to his forehead, pink that spreads from his cheeks down past his collarbones.

“Come here.” Tom reaches to brush his hand against Mark’s forehead. “Want you close.”

Despite his arousal, warmth blooms in Mark’s chest at the plea. He withdraws his fingers carefully to climb over him, pressing a comforting kiss to Tom’s jaw when he whines at the loss.

“I’ve got you”, he says, pushing back in with three fingers as he settles, slow and deliberate, though he’s sure Tom doesn’t need it – he’s already writhing impatiently, hungry hands roaming along Mark’s back. “That’s it.”

“Uh , that’s so–” Tom’s breath hitches, and he seems to lose the words.

“Yeah”, Mark agrees. “Taking it so well.”

“Please”, Tom pants, his breath damp on Mark’s ear. “Fuck, Mark. Need you now.”

Heat licks up Mark’s spine, and he pulls back just enough to pick up the lube again. He barely spares a glance to look at what he’s doing, just gives his own cock a couple of quick strokes to make sure he’s ready, to spread the slick substance all down the length.

He lines himself up, pushes in, agonizingly slow, holding on to Tom’s hips and leaning over him. He’s already lightheaded with want, but he needs to make this last, make it good.

Tom is nearly soundless, his eyes fluttering closed and mouth hanging open, overwhelmed, his fingers digging hard into Mark’s bicep, five points of pressure that feel like enough to leave bruises behind. He trembles when Mark buries himself down to the hilt, just holds him there, waiting for Tom’s body to adjust.

It's already too good.

“Hey”, Mark whispers, touching his knuckles to Tom’s cheek to get him to meet his eyes.

Tom does, turns his face to the touch instinctively, looking up at him again. Tom’s eyes are dark with desire, and despite the simmering heat between them, the moment hangs in the air, everything slowing down and the rest of the world losing its significance.

That’s how it feels sometimes, like it’s just the two of them in a place outside of which nothing else exists, a safehouse or a hideaway. Mark is suddenly very glad he decided to be selfish tonight, that they didn’t stay and celebrate with the others. 

“Don’t get sappy on me now”, Tom whispers, because he knows what Mark is thinking, every fucking time.

“You can shut the hell up”, Mark laughs, breathless and aroused and happy. “I can still take my dick and leave.”

“Empty threats”, Tom says. The way he’s looking at him, adoring, trusting, the softest of smiles playing on his lips, is bound to unravel Mark one of these days.

He bends down to press their chests flush together, and his hands travel further up Tom’s body, skimming over the bumps of his ribs, the tight peak of a nipple. He begins to move, pulling back slightly before pushing forward again, into the tight heat of Tom’s body.

The movement is slow, careful, but Tom’s thighs clamp around his hips, encouraging him to give him more, moaning low and needy when Mark gives a longer thrust, as deep as he can manage. The slide is smooth – as hard as Tom’s is clinging onto his shoulders, he’s relaxed, his body pliant beneath Mark’s. 

It’s still hard to believe it sometimes, how they give themselves to each other’s hands now, without reservations, after everything. How deep the trust is, despite it all. The pleasure is easy to get lost in, the familiar rhythm, and Mark can feel the fire building up inside of him even as he tries to keep the pace slow, pressure coiling tight in his stomach.

“It’s not gonna be long”, Mark warns, burying his face into Tom’s neck. “Sorry. Fuck, it’s– Tom, you feel so good.”

Tom strokes his neck, reassuring. His voice is unsteady when he answers, breathy sounds punctuated by Mark’s thrusts. “Don’t care. Wanna feel you come.”

“Christ ”, Mark groans, and hitches Tom’s hips higher to get a better angle.

The sound that tumbles from Tom at the change is nearly a sob, and he rocks back against him harder, meeting him every time, and it only propels Mark closer to the edge. The muscles in his legs burn with the effort, but this’ll only take a short while.

When he comes, he latches his mouth tight on the spot between Tom’s neck and shoulder, muffles whatever noise he’s making by sucking a bruise into the salty skin. Through the hazy waves of his orgasm, he can feel Tom’s jerky movements as he chases his own release, the wet slide of his cock against Mark’s belly.

“Keep going, keep doing that”, Tom rambles. “I’m so close.”

Mark is shaking, barely back in his own body, but he shoves a hand between their bodies, begins jerking Tom off with firm strokes, does his best to keep fucking him through it. Tom clenches around him hard, says his name, repeating it like it’s the only one he knows when he comes, shoots his load all over his own chest, Mark’s fingers.

Their movements slow down gradually, both of them attempting to recover. Mark leans in to press kisses on Tom’s slack mouth until he catches his breath and pulls him in properly. They stay like that for a moment, kissing each other like they don’t need oxygen, lazy tongues and sweaty skin.

“How’s that for an end-of-the-tour party?” Mark asks.

“Pretty good”, Tom says. He looks spent, with his half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks. “I’m kinda glad we didn’t invite anyone else, though. This bed would’ve been way too small.”

Mark can’t stop smiling as he peels himself off of Tom enough to settle down next to him, but Tom pulls him back into his arms instantly. The rapidly cooling, sticky mess between them would bother him, normally, but he goes without complaints this time. He’s not ready to put any distance between them yet.

Tom’s arm circles his waist, his lips land soft in his hair. “Fuck, I'm so happy. You make me so happy. I can’t imagine any of this without you.”

His tone is still light, but the words are serious. Mark swallows, holds on tightly.

They’ll be going home soon, and he’ll be sad about it for a while, but it’ll be a clear, fond kind of ache that won’t keep him up at night. If it does, he can roll over and wrap himself around Tom, knowing that things will be lighter when the morning comes.

He used to think about it often, the silence after the end of a party. He used to worry about feeling alone in a room full of people. The fears are nothing more than a memory now.

Tom has always found him in every room.

“Me neither”, he says, tracing a circle around the freckles on Tom’s chest. They always get darker the more sun he gets. “Love you so much.”

Tom echoes the phrase back to him, and Mark doesn’t fear for a second that he won’t.