Archive of Our Own

They get home from tour on a cheap cross-country overnight flight, touching down early in the morning.

Mark is too out of it to do more than trail behind the others through the terminal, trusting Rick to get them where they need to be, and Tom is on the verge of nodding off right there on his feet, fingers hooked around the strap of Mark’s backpack to keep up as they weave through the sleepy airport crowd. He slumps against Mark as they come to a stop in a line, hiding his face against his shoulder with a miserable little groan to escape from the blinding fluorescent lights above, the way he did when he was sleeping on the plane, using Mark as a convenient pillow. Mark wraps an arm around his lanky frame to steady him.

“You guys are so fucking weird,” Travis says as he passes them, going the opposite direction to catch his connecting flight to LA, and he laughs when Mark flips him off. “Get home safe, yeah? This was fun.”

“It was fun,” Tom agrees, voice muffled in Mark’s hoodie. He turns his head a little and holds out a fist for Travis to bump. “So much fucking fun. Couldn’t do this without you, dude.”

“Me and Tom are gonna have to actually learn our instruments for a change to keep up,” Mark adds, side-stepping Tom’s clumsy, half-hearted attempt to elbow him in the ribs for that.

Travis grins. “You might.”

Mark looks after him as he heads off, disappearing into the crowd, then turns his attention back to Tom, who’s now fully leaning on him, eyes closed. He teasingly pats Tom’s head, pets his hair—soft and downy without the usual product in it, a little overgrown from the weeks on the road—like he’s an oversized cat draped against him, and earns a muffled giggle that tickles warm against his skin, and he pretends he doesn’t feel the brief, chaste press of lips to the side of his neck, the curve of a smile that’s just for him. Tries not to think about how much he’s going to miss this.

He shifts his arm to get a better grip on Tom, then starts moving again, gently steering them toward baggage claim.

They exchange one last brief hug at the baggage carousel as they say their goodbyes, awkward and one-armed through the bulk of their luggage and the throng of travelers, both of them bleary-eyed and tired, and then Tom is already gone from his side, gone for good, pushing through the crowd to get to where Jen is waiting to welcome him home.

His backpack drops forgotten to the ground as he lifts her off her feet, swinging her around in a tight circle as she squeals and laughs until he finally lets her go and pulls her into a kiss. Her fingers find their way into his hair to drag him down to her height.

Mark watches them for a long moment, something twisting in his stomach.

“You need me to arrange a car for you?” Rick asks, glancing up from his bulky phone, trying to carry his suitcase under his arm and balancing more bags beside him. “Someone picking you up?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Mark mutters, managing a tired smile. “Car’s outside. Anne left it in the parking lot. I’ll just grab it and head home.”

“Hell yeah, dude. You got all your stuff?”

Mark nods absentmindedly, still watching Tom and Jen in the distance, the two of them still wrapped up in each other, oblivious to everything else—trading kisses and whispers and smiles, Tom already recounting some story from tour with wide, sweeping gestures, Jen hanging on every word.

He knows it’s stupid to feel this way, stupid and selfish and silly—he’s happy for them, he really fucking is, or at least for Tom, because how could he not?—but it’s hard not to feel a twinge of envy. A pang of loneliness, standing alone in the middle of a crowded hall of people reuniting with their loved ones, all smiles and happy tears, with Tom and Jen in each other’s arms, with no one there waiting for him.

No one waiting for him at all.

Of course not.

He’d been dreading this part all tour, the way he always seems to do, more and more each time.

Rick sends him off with a promise to send Mark an email with their travel plans for the next leg of the tour as soon as possible, and then he’s out of sight, melting into the sea of people heading towards the exit. 

Mark sighs, adjusting his grip on his bags, and turns towards the parking lot.

The early morning air is crisp and slightly damp with dew. He breathes it in deeply, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleepiness. The parking lot is mostly empty, and the quiet is almost jarring after the constant noise of the airport. He finds his car exactly where Anne said it would be, tucked in a corner space under a streetlamp.

He unlocks it, tossing his bags into the back seat and sliding into the driver’s seat with a weary groan. 

For a moment he just rests his head against the steering wheel, eyes closed, trying to gather the energy to start the car, trying to ignore the silence pressing in around him, all-encompassing and heavy after the months of chaos and laughter, of fun, of shows and crowds and people singing along to songs he wrote with his best friend in the whole fucking world.

Just like that, the tour is over. Just like that, they’re finally home.

Just like that, Mark is alone again. It’s the one thing he’s never been able to deal with.

* * *

Mark spends the first week or so doing his best to catch up on family visits and the pile of mail and bills Anne collected for him, listens to his mom fuss over how tired he looks, and lets his stepdad tell him all about the projects he’s been working on—the garage door that finally got painted, the new garden lights he installed, everything that’s been going on in the neighborhood, endless mundane gossip.

The days blur together as he settles back into life at home. The normality of it all is difficult to adjust to. Last week he was on a stage feeling the bass drum kick in his chest like a heartbeat, today he’s cursing at his washing machine, sorting through dirty laundry, taking out the trash in the late afternoon when he wakes up from restless sleep, squinting at the sun. It’s disorienting. It always is.

He’s never been good at this part of the cycle—the downtime, the in-between. He thrives on the chaos of the road, the constant movement, the adrenaline of performing. It’s when he feels most alive. But here, at home, with nothing but the ticking of the clock and the low hum of the refrigerator, he feels like he’s waiting for something he can’t quite name. Waiting for the next tour, the next gig, the next excuse to not be alone with his thoughts.

He hasn’t even unpacked his instruments yet, and he doesn’t know if he wants to. It’s only a month. Barely enough time to get settled back into routine before tour uproots them again. Why bother? What’s the point?

Usually there’d be song ideas, or maybe some new lyrics forming in his mind, sparked by the whirlwind of experiences on tour. He’s supposed to be coming up with songs—they’re scheduled to go to the studio later this year, and so far he hasn’t written a single line. The few times he picks up a pen, he just ends up crumpling the paper in frustration and tossing it aside, burying his head in his hands.

These aren’t lyrics he can show to the others. Not even to Tom. Particularly not to Tom. Too dark, too raw, too revealing, only half-formed thoughts that he barely recognizes as his own once he reads them written down—nothing that would ever fit blink.

Tom would laugh him out of the studio, and he’d probably deserve it.

He doesn’t hear from Tom at all, but he didn’t really expect to. These months-long tours in close quarters are always enough to make them sick of each other for a while, and things in the band have been tense for a while anyway, uncomfortably complicated since the whole thing with Scott went down and they went from three to two, just Tom and him now, and Travis, still too new to be completely folded into the band. There never used to be tension before, but it’s been a year of it.

He still finds himself missing that closeness—the laughter, the shows, the days spent together, glued to each other’s side. 

The nights together. 

Tom’s lips on his, his eager hands on his skin, the warmth of his body against his own on cold nights, pressed up against each other in the tiny bunk of a tour bus, or on the thin mattress of a cheap motel room, the shared jokes and knowing glances that only they understand. Waking up next to each other, tangled in the same sheets, the world reduced to just the two of them. The way Tom’s sleepy smile made everything feel right even when they were a thousand miles from home.

Mark misses all of it. Misses all of Tom, even the parts that aren’t his to miss.

And Jesus, he should know better by now—he isn’t Tom’s fucking girlfriend—but the ache is still there, still present in all his thoughts when his mind drifts to Tom.

He can’t help but wonder if Tom feels the same way, if he misses him too, or if Jen’s presence fills that void completely. It’s a thought that stings more than it should.

He should know better.

Mark isn’t sure what he is to Tom, or what Tom is to him these days. It’s not a thing they speak about. What happens on tour is one thing. Being home is another. They’re different worlds, different lives. Lines they aren’t meant to cross. He’s just gotten bad at navigating those boundaries lately.

Maybe the distance is a good thing after all. It’s better than the alternative, at least, better than being around each other when he doesn’t know how to act around Tom, how to talk around this thing between them without letting on how far he’s let his guard down, how much he’s let this mean to him.

It’s easier to pretend it’s not there when they’re not together. Easier to pretend nothing has changed. Easier to keep his feelings at bay.

They’re not set to go back into the studio until after the next leg of the tour, but the beginning of that is still weeks away, and Mark finds himself drifting, unmoored and strangely distant from himself, disconnected.

Nights are the worst. The apartment feels too big, too empty. He tries to distract himself with movies, with video games, with books, with anything that might fill the void, but it’s no use. When he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, he can’t escape the walls of the room caving in around him, the weight of something he can’t name coiling in his chest and squeezing around his lungs until he’s shaking with it, until his eyes burn and he’s curled up tight just trying to breathe until the feeling is gone, passing over him like a black cloud.

He’s no stranger to dark moods, but this feels different than that, heavier, somehow. More consuming. A lingering numbness, a creeping boredom. An aching loneliness that seems to settle deeper with each passing day. Mark tells himself it will pass—that he’ll find his balance again, that he always does. He felt it on tour too, in the few, spare moments of quiet in between the chaos, has felt it for a while, if he’s being honest with himself, but distractions are easier to come by when they’re on the road. Things are easier on tour. Everything feels easier.

It’s only at home, trapped in an empty apartment where the silence eats him alive, that the full weight hits him. How empty his life is. How truly alone he actually is. 

He’s nothing without the band. He has nothing else.

Nothing to come home to.

* * *

“I’m not bailing on you, alright? It’s just… date night. We haven’t seen each other in months, so she’s making me do fucking everything with her while I’m home. You know I wouldn’t cancel if this wasn’t super fucking important. She’s been giving me hell.”

“No, I know,” Mark says. He leans back against the kitchen counter, twists and twirls the cord of the phone around his fingers, watches numbly as his skin grows pale where it cuts off his circulation. “I get it, dude, don’t even worry about it. It’s fine.”

“Yeah, but I still feel like an asshole,” Tom replies, his voice tinged with frustration. “I’m so fucking sorry, we’ve been talking for weeks about this and now—”

“It’s just a movie,” Mark says, trying to infuse humor into his voice but falling flat. “We can watch something else another day. Go with Jen, if she wants to see it that bad. Have a nice night. Have fun. I dunno, fucking make out with her in the back row or whatever the kids do these days.”

“I wanted to watch it with you,” Tom says, so simply and earnestly, so disappointed, that Mark has to swallow.

“Yeah,” he says. A beat of silence. “I’ll just make you watch it again with me. No matter how bad it is.”

“It’s The X-Files,” Tom says, almost offended. “Of course it’s good.”

“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you.”

At that, Tom laughs out loud, and Mark smiles to himself at the sound. “It’s a deal, dude. There’s that new cinema up in San Marcos, we said we’d check that out, right? Rick said they have that weird buttery popcorn that you like. I’ll take you there, as many times as you want, whatever movie you want. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll even fucking pay.”

“You not going there with her?”

Tom scoffs and lets out a drawn-out sigh, and Mark knows him well enough to picture his eye-roll. Knows him well enough to know that it’s for his benefit, to make him feel better. “She got us tickets for some fancy theater in Del Mar, I think. I don’t fucking know. They have those weird recliner seats and, like, waiters that bring you food and shit. It’s a whole thing.”

Mark chuckles. “Sounds fancy. You’ll hate it.”

“Probably,” Tom says, and there’s a smile in his voice now, a little lighter. “But hey, gotta keep her happy somehow. Who knows, if I play my cards right, maybe I’ll get a blowjob out of it.”

“Gross.”

Another laugh, crackling through the line.

Mark presses the phone tighter to his ear like that might bring him closer, closes his eyes and lets himself imagine Tom there with him, wishing he could keep him on the line forever, hear that laughter every day without having to miss it.

He tries to ignore the pang of longing that twists in his chest as comfortable silence settles between them, only the faint noise of Tom’s breathing on the other end.

Mark wonders if Tom is listening for his breathing, too. He immediately feels pathetic for the thought.

“Alright, dude,” Tom says eventually, his voice softer now, almost tender. “I gotta run. Jen’s giving me the look.”

Mark opens his eyes, staring blankly at the kitchen tiles. His throat constricts. “Yeah, sure. Go have fun, dude. Don’t keep her waiting.”

“Talk soon, okay?”

“Talk soon.”

The line goes dead, and Mark stands there for a moment, the silence of his apartment rushing back in to fill the void left by Tom’s voice. He sets the phone back on its cradle and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

The loneliness wraps around him again, a heavy blanket he can’t shake off.

It’s stupid to feel let down, he knows that. It’s just a movie, and not even one he’d been particularly looking forward to seeing, despite Tom ranting and raving about it all tour, shoving magazine articles and movie reviews in his face.

But still, something about Tom’s excitement had been infectious. Mark caught himself looking forward to the stupid thing, too. He’d been looking forward to the little bit of normalcy it represented, just hanging out with his best friend, something to break up the monotony, a thin thread of connection, something to make things feel okay, even if just for a couple of hours. And now he doesn’t even have that.

Mark trudges to the living room and collapses onto the couch, for a moment just staring up at the ceiling, unable to gather the energy for anything more. He doesn’t know what to do with himself now. The apartment feels emptier than ever, more silent than ever. The thought of spending another evening alone in here is unbearable, but he can’t think of anything that sounds appealing either.

He grabs the remote and flicks through the channels aimlessly, not really caring what’s on, until he lands on some late-night talk show rerun with a comedian he vaguely recognizes. He settles back, lets himself sink into the couch, eyes half-lidded, the soft hum of the TV filling the room with a semblance of noise, something to fill the silence.

It’s not the first time he’s been here—this strange limbo between tour legs, where he feels more like a ghost haunting his own life than a person actually living it—but it never gets any easier. If anything, it feels harder each time, the loneliness sharper, more pronounced, cutting deeper. But it hasn’t been this bad before.

He knows he should reach out to his other friends, make plans, try to reconnect with the world outside of the band. But it’s hard when all he wants is Tom, when all his thoughts keep circling back to him, to the way things used to be before everything got so complicated.

He can’t shake the image of Tom and Jen together, the easy affection between them, the way they fit into each other’s lives so seamlessly. It’s something Mark’s never had, something he’s always envied, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

Since Elyse—and the thought of her still aches, even two years removed—there hasn’t been much of anything to speak of in the way of relationships. A few casual flings here and there, but nothing that lasted or felt substantial. Nothing that felt like home. Not in the way that Tom does.

Mark feels the burn of tears at the back of his eyes and he swallows hard, trying to blink them back. It’s ridiculous, really. This feeling, this ache, it’s almost like he’s mourning something he never even had—a future with Tom, or a chance to make something out of what they have. Whatever it might be, whatever it could be if it were different. If Tom felt the same way.

Jesus.

Mark turns the TV off and pushes himself off the couch. He can’t stay here. He can’t stay in. He can’t keep thinking about this.

With an annoyed sigh, he finds some passably clean clothes to wear and grabs his keys, letting the front door slam behind him.

Anything is better than his apartment right now. He can still have fun. He doesn’t need Tom DeLonge for that.

He can at least get drunk.

* * *

“Hey, you wanna buy me a drink?”

Mark glances up from his bottle and blinks, surprised, when he meets the gaze of a girl, leaning up against the bar beside him. He almost thinks he’s misheard over the music and the din of the bar, but she’s looking right at him, tilting her head expectantly, waiting for his response. “I—what?”

She smiles. “You wanna buy me a drink?”

He straightens up. “Uh, sure,” he says, trying to shake off his surprise and muster some semblance of charm. He can’t be much of a sight right now, with a week’s worth of nights in the bags under his eyes and his hair wild and lusterless from too many days of just rolling out of bed and skipping showers—but she’s smiling. She’s pretty and she’s smiling at him. He’d be an idiot not to smile back. “What are you having?”

“A gin and tonic, thanks.”

Mark nods and signals the bartender, ordering her drink along with another beer for himself. As they wait, she shifts closer, resting her elbow on the bar and leaning in to talk. “You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” she observes.

“Yeah,” Mark admits with a wry smile, accepting the drinks from the bartender and passing her the gin and tonic. “Just needed to get out for a bit. See something other than my apartment walls for a change.”

“Rough day?” she asks sympathetically.

“Rough few weeks, actually,” Mark confesses, surprising himself with the honesty. He bites his tongue. Takes a long sip of his beer. “Just got back from a long tour. Trying to adjust to being home again. Not doing a great job of it so far.”

“Tour, huh? You in a band?”

He nods.

“You guys big? Maybe I’ve heard of you.”

At another time, another night, he’d maybe brag about their singles on the radio, about the shows they’ve played and the big name bands they’ve played with—maybe he’d even impress her with that—but the energy for that leaves him before he even opens his mouth. Who even fucking cares. Thinking about the band just makes the pang of longing he’s been trying to push down all evening return with a vengeance, a knife twisting in his gut. “We do alright,” he says instead, noncommittal, turns back to his bottle and turns it in his hand, fingers painting lines into the condensation.

She gives an amused little hum and sits down beside him. “You know, you’ve got the look of a musician,” she says, a teasing note to her voice.

Mark glances at her. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, like…” She gives him a playful once-over, the slow drag of her gaze almost appreciative, almost coy. Her eyes are a warm, deep brown, dark in the neon lights. “I dunno. All cool and mysterious.” A smile. “Cute.”

“Cute,” Mark repeats, deadpan. “Just what a guy loves to hear.”

She laughs. “You here alone?”

Mark shrugs. “Was supposed to go out with a friend, but he kinda ditched me for his girlfriend tonight. So, yeah. Just me.” He offers a wry smile.

“Ouch,” she says sympathetically. “I’m sorry. Some friend, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mark says, unable to keep the edge of bitterness from his voice. “Some friend.”

Her eyes soften a bit, and she tilts her head, studying him for a moment before speaking. “His loss. I’ll just have to keep you company instead.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he replies, glancing at her. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

She smiles warmly. “No worries. It’s Emma.”

“Mark.”

“Well, Mark,” she says, saying his name like she’s tasting it, like it’s something to savor, and she shifts a little closer, her knee pressing against his, “we can still have some fun tonight, right? No point in letting the night go to waste just because your friend is kind of a dick.”

“He’s not,” Mark protests automatically, then catches himself, his words hanging awkwardly in the air. He winces. “I mean, he can be, but he’s not, you know, usually. It’s not—He’s just… It’s not his fault. It’s mostly me. Bringing my own shit into it.”

Emma raises an eyebrow, a small, amused smile playing at her lips. “Sounds complicated.”

Mark sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Everything’s fucking complicated lately.”

“Band drama?”

“Something like that,” Mark mutters. He downs the rest of his beer. The alcohol is already starting to go to his head, hitting harder than usual on an empty stomach, but he waves for another drink, something stronger to try and dull the ache in his chest.

Emma’s smile flickers a little, but she doesn’t press further. She reaches for her gin and tonic and takes a sip, watching him thoughtfully.

The silence between them drags on for a moment too long, grows heavy and awkward. His fingers peel anxiously at the corner of the beer label.

Emma’s hand finds the inside of his knee and he startles at the touch, at her fingers curling around his leg. She leans in even closer, and he can smell the faint scent of her perfume, something floral and sweet. “Maybe I can help you forget about it for a while,” she says softly, her voice low and inviting.

Mark stares at her. “What?”

“We can just talk,” she says, gently squeezing his thigh. Her gaze flicks down to his lips, lingering, and there’s a subtle invitation in her posture, a softening of her features that makes her intentions clear. “See where the night goes.” She shrugs, meeting his eyes again. “Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, the words coming out more uncertain than he intended, almost a question. “Yeah, sure.”

“It’s better than wallowing at least,” she teases, her gaze narrowing a little as his drink arrives. “Or getting drunk all on your own.”

“To getting drunk together, then,” Mark says, and she clinks her glass against his.

He takes a deep sip, the liquor burning all the way down his throat. He hoped for courage, or some steadying confidence at least, but instead it somehow only makes him dizzy, only makes his face feel hot and his clothes too tight, the air too stifling.

The lights of the bar have a hazy glow around them as he glances back over his shoulder to the crowded room, the buzz of music and conversation, people laughing boisterously with their friends, clinking glasses, everything blending into a muffled hum.

He’s vaguely aware that Emma has started talking to fill the silence—something about her job, the weekend plans she has with her friends, her recent obsession with an obscure TV show—but he finds it hard to focus on her words, only half listening. 

Even here, he feels strangely distant from everything, like he’s moving through a fog, not fully present, not fully there. Like he’s underwater. Somehow alone in the room, even with Emma beside him, her leg pressed up against his under the bar. He forces himself to look at her and to focus on her face, her dark eyes, the way her lips move as she talks. He nods along, tries to smile at the right times. She’s nice, she’s pretty, and she’s trying to cheer him up. He should be grateful. He is grateful. But there’s a hollow feeling in his chest that no amount of alcohol or friendly conversation can fill.

“…so what do you think?” she asks, and Mark realizes he’s missed most of what she said.

“Sorry, what?” Mark says, blinking as he tries to shake off the fog.

Emma’s smile fades and she shifts back a bit, her hand slipping from his knee. He hadn’t even realized it was still there. “Am I boring you?” she asks lightly, half-joking, but there’s a hint of hurt on her face.

Mark winces. “No, you’re—I’m sorry. It’s just—my mind’s kinda all over the place tonight. Just… zoned out for a minute. It’s not you. You’re—Jesus, you’re fucking great, I promise. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Emma says. Her tone is more polite than warm now. She takes another sip of her drink, glancing around the bar.

Mark can’t shake the feeling that he’s blowing it somehow. “I’m sorry,” he says again, like that means anything. “I promise I’m not usually like this. You just caught me on a shitty fucking night.”

“It’s okay,” she insists. “Really. I’ve been there.”

Mark nods, trying to accept her reassurances, but the tight knot in his chest refuses to loosen.

“You know what, I think I’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick,” Emma says, sliding off her bar stool and adjusting the thin straps of her top. She glances at him and hesitates for a moment, then gives a small, tight-lipped smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just need to freshen up.”

Mark hangs his head with a sigh as she leaves, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. He rubs at his face, his aching eyes.

He orders another round.

The minutes tick by, and his mind drifts as he absentmindedly nurses his drink, watching the ice clink against the sides of his glass, slowly melting into the amber liquid.

He only realizes how long it’s been when the bartender clears Emma’s half-empty glass from the bar, wiping down the counter and casting a curious glance in his direction. 

Mark blinks disorientedly and looks around, but there’s no sign of her. His vision is already starting to swim, the room spinning a little. He’s swaying as he pushes himself to his feet, movements unsteady and clumsy, and he only just remembers to fumble for his wallet and drop some cash on the counter to pay for the drinks, mumbling an apology, before he’s stumbling towards the exit, pushing through the crowd of patrons, the noise and laughter melding into a muffled, indistinct roar. He’s trying to steady his breathing, to ignore the way the world seems to tilt and sway around him. 

She ditched him.

He’s not sure why he’s surprised. Some pretty stranger in a bar, giving him compliments and touching his leg and playing with her hair—why would she want to stick around for some sad, drunk idiot who couldn’t even pretend to be interested in her for a single night? He’s pathetic. 

No one else fucking sticks around. Not even Tom. 

Why should she?

The thought sits inside his chest with ugly heaviness, making it difficult to breathe.

It’s near the exit as he’s already halfway out the door that he finally spots her through the throng of people, leaning against the wall, drink in hand.

She’s there, but she’s not alone. 

Another guy stands beside her, close enough that their shoulders touch—someone tall and broad-shouldered and handsome, with an easy smile—and Mark watches as he leans in, his hand resting possessively on her waist. They’re talking animatedly, their faces lit up with shared amusement. Emma’s smile is wider now, more genuine, her eyes sparkling with an infectious energy. 

Mark stops in his tracks. His stomach clenches. A wave of self-loathing crashes over him.

Of course, he thinks. Of course.

It’s obvious what’s going on, even before she tucks her head against the guy’s shoulder, laughing at something he said. She leans up to kiss him, her fingers tangling in his hair.

And Mark should just fucking turn around and leave, but he can’t tear his eyes away, even though every second he watches feels like a knife twisting deeper. He doesn’t know why he’s this hurt—why he cares—when he barely even knows her, but the hurt is there, raw and immediate, cutting through the alcohol-induced haze and leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth.

He’s pushing towards her before he can think better of it, before he even knows what he’s going to do or say.

Emma glances over at him as he approaches, and Mark catches her eye. There’s something about her gaze—a mixture of pity and guilt and exasperation—that makes his heart sink.

“Hey,” he says, trying to sound more coherent than he feels, but his voice comes out a little slurred, a little unsteady. “I, uh—I was looking for you. You kinda disappeared on me.”

Emma sighs. She shifts a little away from the guy, who looks Mark up and down with mild curiosity and something like guarded amusement. She keeps her hand on his arm. “Mark, look,” she says, not unkindly, her gaze softening as she takes him in, the pathetic sight he must be. “You seem like a really sweet, nice guy. I just—”

“Jesus,” Mark mutters. He looks back over his shoulder for an escape route, immediately regretting even having come over, but she’s still talking, continuing on without acknowledging his interruption.

“I just don’t think this would have been a good idea,” she says. “You and me. I came out here tonight to… I dunno. Have a good time. Unwind. And you seem to have a lot of other stuff going on right now. Stuff you’re working through. You’re obviously going through some shit—and that’s okay, I get it, but I’m not sure I’m the right person to help you with that.” 

Mark feels the sting of her words like a slap to the face, like a punch to the gut, and he opens and closes his mouth as he struggles to process them fully through the slow, hazy drag of his thoughts. 

All he can really hear is the thudding of his own heartbeat in his ears. 

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts, but he’s not sure what he’s even trying to say. The words seem inadequate, useless. He swallows hard, his throat tight.

“It’s not that I don’t like you,” Emma says carefully. “I’m just…. I’m not really looking for anything messy or complicated right now. I’m sorry.”

A jolt of embarrassment, of deep, aching shame, shoots through him, a hot flush rising to his cheeks, his face burning. He feels like he’s been turned inside out, exposed and raw.

The weight of the last few weeks crashes down on him, even heavier now that it’s being echoed back to him by someone who barely knows him.

If even she can see what a fucking mess he is, how much he’s struggling, how much he needs to sort his shit out, then what the hell must everyone else think? His family? His friends? The realization hits him like a wave, dragging him under.

“Right,” Mark says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. He forces a nod, a jerky movement. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton. “Right, yeah.”

Emma seems to relax a bit, like she’s relieved he isn’t making a scene, and she eases back against the guy beside her, who immediately slips his arm around her waist, drawing her close. She gives Mark a sympathetic, almost apologetic smile, but there’s a clear finality in her tone. “I hope things get better for you,” she says. “Really. I hope you find whatever you’re looking for.”

Mark turns on his heel without another word, mortified and humiliated and angry and drunk, as he pushes his way through the crowded bar and away from her, away from the guy, out through the door, and stumbles into the warm summer night. He doubles over, hands on his knees, sucking in deep, shuddering breaths. 

He almost feels like he’s about to have a panic attack right there on the sidewalk, in full view of everyone, the talk of the fucking town, but he fights it back, tries to steady his breathing, tries to focus on the clean, cool ocean breeze on his flushed face.

The bar’s neon lights flicker behind him, casting a disorienting glow that makes the pavement look like it’s undulating beneath his feet. 

He feels sick.

Mark manages to flag down a cab, and collapses into the back seat, giving his address in a slurred mumble. The driver doesn’t say anything, just starts the meter and pulls away from the curb.

Mark leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes and willing himself not to throw up. The city lights blur past the window, and he can feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing at his temples. He just wants to get home, to crawl into bed and forget this night ever happened.

The cab ride feels like it takes forever, but eventually they pull up in front of his apartment building. Mark throws the driver all the cash he has left in his wallet, hoping it’s enough, before stumbling out of the cab.

He makes his way up to his apartment, the hallway spinning around him. He drops his keys twice before managing to get the door open, and when he finally steps inside, the silence of the apartment is deafening. Without turning on the lights, he heads straight to his bedroom, feeling his way along the wall as he goes. 

Something crashes to the ground and shatters, but he doesn’t bother to check what it was, too exhausted and disoriented to care. The noise barely registers.

He just collapses onto the bed with a low, miserable groan, fully dressed, and pulls the covers over himself, over his head. He buries his face in the pillow. 

Everything is spinning, even with his eyes closed. He can’t remember the last time he was this wasted, not even on tour when the roadies and bands trade hard liquor and bawdy, raucous stories up until early in the morning. He thinks he might throw up after all, but he’s too tired to get up. He doesn’t ever want to get up again.

The shame burns in the center of his chest, almost makes him want to fucking cry, but he bites the tears down, wipes the few that spill over harshly from the corners of his eyes.

So a girl shot him down. So fucking what? Shit like this has happened to him more times than he can count. She was a stranger in a bar, her name already slipping from his mind. He probably won’t remember it at all by tomorrow. She doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that she was nice about it, doesn’t matter that she somehow managed to shove her fist right through his ribcage and close it around his heart, around all the doubts and fears and insecurities that have accumulated over the years, making their poison drip through her fingers.

Of course she didn’t want him. Of course not. Who fucking would? He’s a mess, a wreck, barely able to function without something to numb the ache inside him, and everyone can see it. He’s been hiding behind his music, behind the noise and the chaos of their endless tours, the endless shows, hoping it would drown out the rest, but now, lying in the dark without any convenient distraction, with only his thoughts for company, it all comes crashing down. The facade he’s built up is crumbling, revealing a pattern he’s been trying so hard not to see.

Why would he ever be anyone’s first choice? He’s never been before. He can’t even hold on to his best friend anymore, can’t even be enough for Tom to want to spend a few hours with him. 

It’s like there’s something wrong with him. Maybe there is. There has to be. That’s the only reasonable explanation, the only thing that makes sense. Something fundamentally broken inside him, something flawed and cracked and rotten and wrong that keeps driving people away, that makes him impossible to stick around for, impossible to love. It has to be him. It can’t be anyone else.

Mark curls tighter into himself, trying to make the spinning stop.

He’s so fucking tired of feeling like this. Tired of being lonely, of waiting for a call or a text that doesn’t come, of hoping for something more, for his life to suddenly make sense. He’s tired of pretending he’s okay when everything feels so fucking wrong all the time, tired of the lies he tells himself to get through the day.

He’s alone, and he’s always going to be alone. Maybe he just needs to make his peace with that.

* * *

“Dude,” a voice says from the doorway. “What the fuck.”

Mark doesn’t have the strength to lift his head from the pillow or the energy to roll over to face the door—he merely curls up tighter, burrowing deeper into his blanket. He knows that voice, recognizes it through the haze and the fog as though across a dream, would always recognize it.

It doesn’t feel real. Nothing feels real right now.

Tom.

“Is this where you’ve been hiding away? You need to open a fucking window in here.”

Mark doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s heard. Maybe it is a dream. He hasn’t been dreaming a lot lately, even with all the sleep he’s been getting, but maybe this time something slipped through the cracks, the pain and regret and the longing. 

All he does is sleep. 

He’s too tired for anything else, too tired for dreams, too tired for anything but this heavy weight pressing down on him, filling up the room until he can hardly breathe.

“You couldn’t fucking answer your phone for two weeks?”

He hears the faint sound of movement, the click of the latch, the soft creak of hinges protesting before cool air whispers across his cheek, tugging at his hair, pressing goosebumps into his skin. He shivers.

He didn’t even realize the recent summer heat wave had finally broken.

“Jesus, dude,” Tom says, quieter now, closer. “Are you…?” Careful steps on the hardwood floor. The soft clink of empty bottles and the rustle of take-out containers and discarded clothes being nudged aside, and then finally Tom comes into view, crouching down beside the bed. The wide-eyed tension of his face softens a little into relief when he sees that Mark is awake, but it’s short-lived, the beginnings of a smile dying the moment he actually gets a good look at Mark in the dim light. He freezes. His expression crumples. “Mark?” His voice is small, his hand hovering uncertainly in the space between them. “Fuck, are you sick? You look—What the hell happened?”

Mark opens his mouth to speak, but the words stick in his throat. All he can manage is a shaky breath, tears stinging his eyes. 

He’s barely able to look at Tom.

All he’s been wanting for weeks was anyone by his side at all, some company to make him forget about the loneliness waiting at home, someone to drag him out of his misery and make him laugh like an idiot at the stupidest things the way that only Tom can, but now that Tom is here, there isn’t even any relief in his presence. Only the raw, humiliating feeling of being seen at his lowest by the one person who he least wanted to see him like this, by the one person who matters most.

He feels pathetic, lying there like a wreck, barely able to summon the will to respond, barely holding it together. He is pathetic.

“Dude, you’re fucking scaring me.” Tom touches Mark’s forehead with the back of his hand, the gentle, awkward brush of his knuckles against clammy skin, checking his temperature.

Mark can feel the warm huff of his breath against his face, so close, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, turns his head away from the touch.

His voice cracks when he finally manages to speak, hoarse from disuse, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“No, hey, that’s not—Jesus. Fucking—Why the hell didn’t you call me?” Tom’s hand closes around his shoulder, squeezes gently. “Mark. Why didn’t you call?”

Mark doesn’t answer. He shivers again.

The mattress dips as Tom slowly sits down beside him, close enough that Mark can feel the warmth of his presence. There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation, like they’re both holding their breath. “How long have you been lying here?” Tom finally asks, so softly. “How long have you been feeling like this?” 

Mark swallows hard. He blinks open his eyes, but he can’t meet Tom’s searching gaze, just stares at a point somewhere on the wall, the white paint flecked with shadows from the weak light filtering through the blinds, through the crack of the open door.

A beat of silence. “Since the tour ended?”

“Not sick,” Mark mumbles. “M’fine”

“Bullshit.” Tom’s grip tightens on his shoulder. “That’s fucking bullshit, I’ve never seen you like this before. Don’t fucking lie to me, that’s not—please don’t lie to me right now.” He lets out a shaky little breath and swipes a trembling hand down his face. “Fuck. Okay, fuck, you need to get up.”

Mark doesn’t move. He doesn’t think he could. He doesn’t want to. The weight of it all—the crushing loneliness, the self-loathing, the exhaustion—keeps him pinned in place. He knows Tom is right, that he can’t stay like this forever, but the thought of moving, of doing anything at all, feels impossible.

“C’mon,” Tom urges, more insistent now, pulling at the blanket. He shifts beside Mark. “You’re getting up. You need to take a shower, you fucking stink, dude. You’re rank.”

Mark doesn’t resist when Tom pulls the blanket away and guides him to sit up, the movement slow and laborious. He winces as his muscles protest, stiff and sore from the days spent curled up in the same position. The room tilts for a moment, and Mark has to close his eyes to fight down the nausea and the approaching headache, swaying slightly, Tom’s steady grip on his arm the only thing anchoring him.

“Good. That’s good,” Tom says softly, more to himself than to Mark, relief coloring his voice. “C’mon, up you get.” He doesn’t let go, his grip firm and reassuring as he helps Mark to his feet. Mark stumbles, leaning heavily against him, and Tom grunts under the sudden weight but doesn’t falter. “Easy,” Tom murmurs. “You got it, that’s it. I got you. There you go. One foot in front of the other.”

Mark manages a nod, his throat too tight to speak.

They slowly make their way to the bathroom, Tom half-carrying him, murmuring quiet reassurances that Mark barely registers.

The light is too bright when Tom flicks the switch, and Mark squints against it, feeling the ache behind his eyes intensify.

“Hold on.” Tom turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature before turning back to Mark. “Can you manage?” he asks, concern etched into his features.

Mark nods weakly, but Tom doesn’t seem convinced. He stays close, hovering nearby with nervous, anxious energy and shifting his weight as he watches Mark struggle out of his clothes and step under the stream of warm water. The heat is a shock to his system, but it feels good, washing away some of the grime and the fatigue that’s settled into his bones.

For a moment, Mark just stands there, letting the water cascade over him, eyes closed, trying to focus on the physical sensation rather than the turmoil inside his head. He hears the soft sound of movement and opens his eyes to see Tom gathering up his discarded clothes.

Their eyes meet through the steamed-up glass of the shower.

“I’ll just… I’ll be right outside,” Tom says, his voice gentle but uncertain. “I’ll get you some new clothes. Something clean.” He lingers for a moment, hesitates, as if waiting for Mark to say something, like he doesn’t want to leave Mark at all, but then he steps away, his gaze averted, leaving the door ajar.

Mark stares after him, feeling strangely bereft as the sound of Tom’s footsteps fade. He leans his forehead against the cool tiles, dizzy in the heat, and he only just manages to keep himself from collapsing completely as his knees buckle beneath him.

Slowly, shakily, he sinks down to the floor of the shower, suddenly too exhausted to stand any longer.

Mark closes his eyes, lets the water pelt his skin, the sound of it rushing in his ears, drowning out the thoughts, the memories. He barely feels it. He feels numb. He’s felt numb for weeks, the weight of everything piled so high that it’s crushed the life out of him.

His head falls to his drawn-up knees, and time slips away like sand as he tries to focus on his breathing, on every unsteady exhale, on the ache in his chest growing sharper with each breath, like his lungs aren’t getting enough air, like he’s suffocating—

It’s like everything hits all at once.

Something cracks open inside him like a fault line, a gaping pit of emptiness, an abyss in the center of his chest.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until a first sob claws its way up his throat, raw and painful and desperate. He chokes on it, tries to stifle the sound with the back of his hand pressed against his mouth, but it’s futile. The tears come in earnest then, unchecked, unstoppable, burning hot on his face as he curls tighter into himself, wrenching sobs that shake his frame, each breath a struggle against the weight of his emotions. 

Mark knows he’s let things get bad, worse than he’s ever admitted, even to himself, but he can’t remember the last time he cried like this, or at all—maybe not since he was a child.

He doesn’t hear the door open or the curtain drawing back, but he feels the rush of cool air that accompanies it, and suddenly Tom is there, right beside him, crouching on the wet floor, reaching for him, heedless of the water soaking through his clothes.

”Hey, hey,” Tom murmurs, almost frantically, a panicked edge to his voice as he wraps his arms around Mark, breathing his name.

Mark almost flinches back at the touch, at the comfort offered so freely when he feels less like a human and more like an open wound, undeserving of it, too raw for gentleness, too pathetic for kindness, but he folds into Tom despite himself, despite the instinctive rush of shame.

Maybe he’s too exhausted to put up a fight. Too drained to do anything but let himself crumble under Tom’s hands and break apart as Tom pulls him close.

Mark buries his face in Tom’s shoulder, and it’s like a last barrier breaks, a last wall he’d been fighting so hard to keep up, all loose mortar and crumbling bricks. His fists clench in Tom’s shirt, gripping the fabric with violent, desperate strength, and he lets out a choked sob, his whole body shaking with it as it wracks through him. He hates the noise it makes, reverberating off the shower walls, too loud in the confined space, too honest, too ugly, too much, but he can’t seem to stop it now that it’s started, all the pent-up anguish, all the loneliness and despair pouring out of him in ragged, broken gasps, even as he tries to muffle the sounds.

Even in the all the years they’ve known each other, all the lows they’ve helped each other through, all the times he held Tom the way Tom is holding him now, like he might shake apart in his arms, he’s never felt this defenseless, this exposed, laid bare down to skin and bone and all the deepest, darkest parts of him.

He’s never let himself feel like that. Never let anyone in this far. Not even Tom.

Not even Tom.

“Mark,” Tom breathes, voice breaking on his name. He holds him tighter, pulls him closer, lips pressed to Mark’s wet hair, and Mark almost thinks he can feel him shake, trembling the way Mark is trembling. “Fuck, okay, you’re okay. I got you. You’re okay.”

Mark tries to speak, but his words dissolve into more tears, into another sob, choked and unintelligible and uncontrollable. He clings to Tom like a lifeline, like he might disappear if he lets go, like maybe if he holds on tight enough, he won’t drown in the ache of it all, in the emptiness swallowing him whole.

Tom doesn’t say anything more. He just holds Mark, tight and unyielding, one hand cradling the back of his head, stroking his hair, the other wrapped securely around his trembling shoulders. 

They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, until Mark’s sobs subside into shuddering breaths and his grip on Tom’s shirt loosens, until the water runs cold around them. 

Mark shivers. He grimaces against Tom’s shoulder and hides his face in the damp, clinging fabric of his shirt for a few moments longer, trying to soak in the solid, comforting warmth of the arms around him. Then, he pulls back from Tom’s embrace without meeting his eyes, embarrassed and raw. Wipes harshly at his face. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I shouldn’t have—”

Tom doesn’t let him go far. He tightens his hold, keeping Mark close against him. “No, hey,” he whispers. His voice is thick, like he’s on the verge of tears himself. He squeezes around the nape of Mark’s neck, lets his hand settle against the sharp curve of his jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Don’t fucking apologize. It’s… Fuck, it’s okay.” 

Mark swallows hard. Guilt twists in his stomach as he looks at Tom.

The water has plastered Tom’s hair to his forehead, turning it almost black, and his eyes are dark and soft with concern and something else, something Mark can’t quite decipher. He looks wrecked, too. He looks young, so fucking young and desperate and helpless, like he’s just as lost as Mark feels, a kid walking in on his world collapsing and whatever illusions he had about Mark's strength shattering right along with it, and Mark almost can’t stand to see it in his expression, in his wide, searching eyes, knowing he’s the cause of it. 

It shouldn’t be Tom’s fucking responsibility to take care of him. It shouldn’t be anyone’s.

“You’re not… this isn’t—” Tom starts, and then cuts himself off, as if he doesn’t quite know what he’s even trying to say. He swallows thickly and takes a breath, his thumb brushing gently over Mark’s cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear. “C’mon, let’s just get you out of here.”

Mark is shaking almost violently now, cold and exhausted, but he nods mutely, allowing Tom to help him stand and guide him out of the shower.

Tom is dripping wet, soaked to the bone and shivering, but he doesn’t even seem to notice or care. He wraps a towel around Mark’s shoulders and rubs it briskly over his hair, trying to dry him off as gently as possible. Mark lets him, feeling strangely numb and disconnected, as if he’s watching everything happen from a distance.

It’s only once Mark is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wrapped in a dry towel and slowly coming back to himself, that Tom finally seems to register his own state. He looks down at his drenched clothes, lets out a small, rueful laugh, and rakes a hand through his wet hair, shaking his head like a dog trying to shake off the excess water, sending droplets flying.

Mark manages a weak smile at the sight, the absurdity of it breaking through the lingering haze of his despair.

“Shit,” Tom mutters. He wrinkles his nose and peels off his shirt with a grimace, tossing it aside unceremoniously. He hesitates for a moment, then strips off his pants as well, standing there in just his boxers, water pooling at his feet.

Mark watches him as he towels himself dry, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and guilt, of shame and something softer, something he’s too raw to name.

He wants to apologize again, but he knows Tom won’t accept it.

“Hold on, I was looking for clean clothes a minute ago. Stay right there,” Tom says, sending him a last quick worried glance before disappearing into the hallway, towel draped low over his hips.

He leaves the door open.

Mark hears drawers opening and closing, and then Tom returns, wearing one of Mark’s old band t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants that are slightly too short for his lanky frame, holding a pile of clothes.

Mark takes the clothes numbly, fingers fumbling with the fabric as he dresses, still feeling exposed under Tom’s watchful gaze. He’s acutely aware of how much he’s leaned on Tom, how much he’s let Tom see, and it makes him feel small and fragile in a way he’s not used to.

But Tom doesn’t press him on it. “You hungry?” he asks instead, voice soft.

Mark, pushing an arm through the sleeve of his hoodie, hesitates for a moment. His throat feels raw from crying, but he manages a nod.

Tom looks relieved at the small sign of engagement. “You eat anything these last few days?”

“Not really.” Mark’s voice is hoarse, scratching in his throat. The admission makes his face burn, makes him avert his eyes again. Shitty take-out food and alcohol were pretty much all his sustenance for a few days, but that was when he could still get out of bed. He can barely remember the last time he did.

“Right,” Tom says, expression tightening with concern. He runs a hand through his hair, still damp and wild, sticking up in every direction. “Right, yeah, that’s—Jesus, okay. I’ll figure something out. I’ll make you some fucking soup or something. I’ll make you the best fucking soup.”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, fuck you, don’t argue with me right now, dude. Fucking look at you. You’re gonna lie down and I’ll—Fuck, just lemme do this, okay? Just lemme do this for you.”

The look in his eyes alone, almost pleading, is enough to make the resistance bleed from Mark, too tired to argue, too grateful to protest.

The blinds in the bedroom are still closed, only a thin sliver of late afternoon daylight spilling in through the cracked open window, but the air is less stifling than it was. Tom found the time to pick up some of the chaos scattered across the room and change the sheets, and Mark can’t help the sigh of relief as he climbs back under the covers, cool and clean against his skin.

Tom fusses with the blanket for a moment, tucking it in around Mark’s shoulders, and then, his hand lingering on Mark’s arm for a heartbeat longer, he’s gone, his footsteps retreating down the hall.

Mark’s body feels heavy, leaden with exhaustion, and he’s barely able to keep his eyes open. He could probably pass out for the rest of the day right now, but he fights against it, drifting in and out of half-sleep, the world a soft blur around him, the edges of his thoughts blurring.

He’s faintly aware of the noises coming from the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans, the sound of water running, the occasional muffled curse. There’s a strange sort of comfort in it, knowing Tom is just a few rooms away, knowing he’s not completely alone anymore. 

Tom is here.

That simple fact still feels more like a wishful dream than anything tangible, anything real, and he half expects to open his eyes and find himself alone again, back in the emptiness. But he doesn’t think even his imagination could have crafted Tom as vivid as this—as gentle as this.

For all the thoughtless, boyish sweetness Mark knows him to be capable of, that he has witnessed for himself over and over again in private moments, this feels different than that. It feels like more than that. More deliberate. More grown up. It’s a part of Tom he doesn’t think he’s seen before, this earnest care, this quiet insistence of presence, but Mark bared a part of himself today that he never showed Tom before either. 

Maybe it’s only fair.

The smell reaches him first—warm and savory, filling the air with a comforting aroma that slowly pulls Mark back to wakefulness. He blinks groggily, just in time to see Tom pad back into the room, carefully balancing a tray in his hands.

Tom grins when he sees that he’s awake. “Dude, this is gonna blow your fucking mind,” he says. “Probably the best thing I’ve ever made. I’m pretty sure it’s got magical healing properties or some shit. My mom used to make it for me when I was sick.”

Mark gives a shaky little laugh as he pushes himself into a sitting position against the headboard, feeling the pull of tired muscles and the lingering rawness of his earlier breakdown. The rich scent of chicken and herbs makes his stomach rumble, reminding him of just how long it’s been since he’s had a proper meal. He’s hungrier than he thought. He shifts slightly in bed, making room for Tom to set the tray down on his lap and sit down beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight. 

“Careful, it’s hot,” Tom warns, reaching out as if to steady the tray, though Mark is already handling it with shaky hands. After a moment of hesitation, when he’s made sure that nothing is going to spill and Mark isn’t going to hurt himself, he slowly settles down beside him, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth.

Their knees bump together lightly as Tom stretches out his legs in front of him, a firm line of contact through the blanket, like a reminder of his presence, silent next to him as Mark slowly begins to eat, the grounding, steadying weight of his gaze fixed on Mark.

The soup is too hot and Mark too tired to actually taste much of anything, but it settles warm in the pit of his stomach and calms the trembling of his hands, clears the fog from his mind. He almost feels human again when he’s done, spoon scraping up the last few mouthfuls of broth from the bottom of the bowl.

Tom helps him set the tray aside with a whispered “There you go,” and Mark sinks back into the pillows with a slow, shuddering exhale, dragging the blanket up to his shoulders. It takes all his strength not to immediately drift off again, breathing in the faint clean smell of laundry detergent clinging to the pillow case and feeling the exhaustion seep deeper into his bones.

They’re both silent for a moment.

Then, Mark feels Tom shift away—slowly, so slowly, like he doesn’t want Mark to notice. The faint warmth against his side disappears, and he opens his heavy eyes just in time to see Tom rise to his feet.

Mark’s stomach drops. He knows Tom has done more than enough already, knows he can’t possibly ask for more, but the thought of being alone again, of Tom leaving now, is almost too much to bear.

“Tom?” he croaks, barely above a whisper.

Tom stops mid-step, turning back to him, eyes wide. “I was just gonna—” He clears his throat, gesturing vaguely towards the dishes on the nightstand, then towards the door, but whatever he sees on Mark’s face makes him trail off into silence, suddenly uncertain. “I thought you’d… Fuck, I dunno. Want some space. Get some rest. But I can—Do you want me to…?”

Mark swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. He hates how desperate he sounds, how utterly vulnerable he feels, but he nods, unable to keep the plea from his voice. “Please, don’t go.”

Tom’s eyes soften immediately. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah. Jesus, Mark, I’m not going anywhere. Not if you need me here. I’m—Fuck, okay, scoot over.”

This isn’t something they do outside of tour, sharing some cheap motel bed to save on costs, a line they don’t cross when they’re back at home, not anymore, not since they were younger, when things were easier, when it was just the two of them against the world, but it feels easy now to lift the corner of the blanket and let Tom slip under the covers with him. Like kids again.

It takes some awkward shuffling for them both to get comfortable, something tentative and careful about it, but then Tom teasingly presses his cold toes up against Mark’s shin, eliciting a startled laugh and a half-hearted shove, and the tension fades.

They curl toward each other, sharing a pillow, sharing their breath.

“Fucking asshole,” Mark says, without heat. He can’t help the smile pulling at his lips.

It’s been so long since he’s felt this—a warm body beside him, someone he trusts implicitly, someone who knows him so well they can predict his reactions, even now, even when he feels like he’s barely holding himself together.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know that?” Tom says quietly. There’s a wry note to his words, but his eyes are dark and serious, something fragile in his gaze.

Mark’s smile fades. “Yeah.”

Tom searches his face. “Did anything… happen? These last few weeks? To make you feel this way? This isn’t—Fuck, this isn’t like you, Mark. Like, I want to help, I really fucking do, but I’m so fucking out of my depth right now, you have no idea. Okay? I don’t know what to do here to make this better. I'll do fucking anything, I just need you to tell me—Jesus, I don’t even know what’s wrong.”

Mark hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as he tries to find the right words. He doesn’t know how to explain it, how to put into words the overwhelming sense of hopelessness that’s been drowning him. He doesn’t want to see the pity in Tom’s eyes, doesn’t want to admit how far he’s fallen.

He’s supposed to have his shit together. Everyone else around him seems to, even Tom, with his girlfriend and his picture-perfect life—Tom, who used to look up to Mark, who used to lean on him for support. He’s not a boy anymore, for all the way he still clings to childish habits and all their immature jokes, the endless pranks. He’s twenty-six. He’s supposed to be a fucking adult by now, supposed to have this all figured out. 

But he hasn’t. Not even close.

Mark swallows, the truth lodged like a stone in his throat. “I don’t know,” he says, finally. The words come out in a small, cracked whisper, barely loud enough for even himself to hear. “I… Fuck, I don’t know.”

Tom’s eyes never leave Mark’s face, searching for something—answers, signs, anything to tell him what Mark won’t. The silence stretches between them, thick and heavy. “Okay, just… take your time,” he says. “I’m here. You can talk to me, dude. Whatever it is. You know you can talk to me about anything, I’m not gonna be, like, a dick about it. Okay?”

Mark nods, a small, jerky motion, his throat too tight for words. He feels the burn of tears behind his eyes again, but he blinks them away, takes a deep breath. He can feel Tom’s gaze on him, steady and unwavering, and it’s that constancy, that unfaltering presence that finally makes him speak.

“It’s just… I’ve been so tired,” he admits, the words tasting bitter on his tongue, somehow not enough, not adequate, but they’re all he has. “Since the tour ended, but before then, too. Like, bone-deep. Like everything’s too much, even breathing.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “Feels like I’m fucking drowning, and I don’t know how to stop. Jesus, I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I shouldn’t…”

“Mark, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

Mark smiles wryly. “Yeah. Right.”

Tom finds his hand under the covers and squeezes it. “No, I know what the fuck you’re thinking and you’re wrong. You’re going through shit, yeah, but you’re not… You’re not—fuck, dude, you’re not any less because you’re struggling. It doesn’t make you weak. It doesn’t mean you’re failing.” Tom’s brows knit together. “It just means you’re human.”

Mark is silent.

Agitated, Tom shifts closer, his fingers tightening around Mark’s hand. “I would have been here sooner if you’d told me—Jesus, Mark, I thought you were fucking mad at me. When you didn’t call. I thought you were pissed at me, and I didn’t want to—Fuck. I didn’t know. I didn’t think…” Tom’s voice wavers and he shakes his head. He draws in a shaky breath, his face tight with emotion. “I should have known.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“No, fuck that,” Tom says sharply, almost desperately. “I should have known. I should have been here. That’s my job. You shouldn’t have had to go through this alone, and it shouldn’t have taken Rick fucking DeVoe asking after you for me to even fucking think that something might be wrong. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You had your own shit going on,” Mark says with a tight, tense shrug. “And I didn’t want… I didn’t want you to see me like this. I didn’t want you to think I was—” He struggles for words. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to be a burden.”

Tom’s face crumples at that. “You’re not a burden, you asshole,” he says, voice cracking. “You’re my friend. My best friend. You don’t get to decide what’s too much for me.”

The words hit some soft, sensitive part inside Mark’s chest, make him ache. He bites his tongue until he can almost taste blood. “Yeah,” he concedes quietly. “Yeah, I know, I should have—I just… I kept thinking that if I just waited a little longer, if I just tried harder, I’d snap out of it. But it only got worse. And I felt so fucking alone, sometimes it felt—it felt like I could just die and no one would even notice, or care.”

Tom stares at him like he’s been punched. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out at first. His grip tightens almost painfully on Mark’s hand. “Don’t. Don’t say that,” he starts, his voice breaking. “Don’t ever even fucking think that. Not for a second. You’re so wrong. You think I wouldn’t care? You’re—Jesus, Mark, you’re like a part of me. I’d be fucking lost without you.”

Mark laughs, brittle and bitter, and it catches like a sob in his throat. “You know that’s not true. You have your life, your friends, Jen—everything. You’d move on. You’d be okay. You don’t need me.”

“What—Jen? Is that what—” Tom pulls back at that, the movement almost a flinch, his hand slipping from Mark’s. The look that passes over his face is all confusion, all hurt. A flash of fear as the weight of Mark’s words seems to fully hit him, so deep and visceral and open that Mark has to avert his gaze. “You’re serious,” Tom finally says, so softly. “You actually fucking believe that. That I—what, that I don’t need you? That I don’t want you around?”

Mark rolls onto his back, stares blankly up at the ceiling, shrouded in darkness. His eyes burn. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I—Fuck, I don’t know. Think sometimes that maybe you’d be better off without me. Like maybe everyone would be better off. Like maybe…”

Like maybe he’d be better off dead.

He doesn’t finish the thought, but it hangs in the silence between them nonetheless, unspoken. Unspeakable.

The bed creaks quietly, the sheets rustling, as Tom slowly sits up beside him. “Mark,” he whispers. He takes a slow breath, exhales through his teeth, like he’s bracing himself. “Fuck, okay, I’m gonna ask you something now and I need you to be honest with me. Whatever the answer is. I just… I need to know. Okay?”

Dread clenches in Mark’s stomach like a fist, but he knows what’s coming. He nods, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Look at me?”

Mark turns his head.

Tom looks small sitting there, backlit by the warm glow of the bedside lamp, cross-legged and vulnerable, his shoulders hunched, pale despite his summer tan, despite the faint ruddy sunburn on his cheeks. His eyes are dark, unbearably afraid. Just a kid.

God, he’s just a kid.

Tom hesitates, swallowing hard, his throat working visibly, and he almost stumbles over his words, can barely even get them out. “Did you… try anything? Did you hurt yourself? Or—or try to—”

His voice breaks like a child’s, choking on the enormity of the question, and Mark’s breath hitches at the sound, at the sight of him. He’s reaching for Tom before he even realizes it, pushing himself up and grasping at his shoulders, his trembling hands finding Tom’s face and smoothing desperately along the tense, clenched line of his jaw with a sudden, sharp panic, with the need to soothe that open fear, the way he’s always soothed Tom’s fears. Only usually he isn’t the cause of them.

“Tom, no,” he breathes. “No, fuck, no, of course not, I didn’t—I haven’t. I promise. I’ve been… shit, I’ve thought about—But I didn’t—” The words aren’t enough, nothing is enough, not when Tom is looking at him like this, like he’s drowning, like they’re both drowning. “I just felt so fucking lost, and I didn’t know how to—how to handle it. But I swear, I haven’t—I never—”

Tom lets out a shaky breath, something like a sob, and then his arms wrap around Mark in a fierce embrace, dragging him close. He buries his face in Mark’s neck, clutching at him with desperate strength. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost too soft for Mark to make out, muffled against his skin. “Jesus fucking Christ, Mark.”

Mark holds him just as tight. His hands tremble as they slide up Tom’s back and find their way into his hair, still damp, smoothing it down gently. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Immediately, Tom shakes his head. His blunt nails dig into Mark’s back. “No, don’t—I’m just so fucking glad that you’re okay, you fucking—Jesus. So glad you’re okay, that you’re still…” He breaks off, unable to continue, and the sound he makes, all broken relief, is a sound Mark has never heard from him before. It’s a raw, wrenching noise that cuts straight to Mark’s core.

“I’m okay,” he echoes quietly, pressing the words to Tom’s temple even though they feel like a lie, but he repeats them like a mantra, like that might make them true. “I’m okay, Tom, I promise, I’m okay. I didn’t—I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

He thought about it, that’s the ugly truth, but he’s never gotten farther than idle thought, never tried to go further. But the thought alone is scary enough. Talking about it now somehow makes it more real than it ever felt in all his darkest moments, lying on his back in this bed staring up at the ceiling fan turning slowly, so slowly.

It’s only now, with some clarity of thought for the first time in weeks, with Tom’s tears hot against his skin, with him all but shaking apart in Mark’s arms, with the evidence of Tom’s fear so tangible, that Mark fully realizes how close he came to something irreversible. It’s like he can finally see the edge he was teetering on, the abyss just beyond it, how thin the line he’s walking actually is, and the realization hits him like nausea, like a freight train.

“I wouldn’t,” he repeats, and his voice breaks on the words, and this time he means it.

Tom pulls back just enough to look at him, his red-rimmed eyes searching Mark’s face with an intensity that makes Mark’s chest tighten even more. “Promise me,” he says, voice raw and pleading. His hands are on Mark’s shoulders, gripping tight. “You promise me, if you ever feel like that again, you tell me. If it ever gets this bad again. If you ever feel like… like you can’t handle it. No matter what. No matter when. You fucking tell me, Mark. I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night or if we’re on opposite sides of the world. You call me, you text me, you show up at my door—I don’t care. I don’t care what’s going on in my life, I’ll drop everything. I’m serious. You have to promise me that.”

Mark stares at him. “Tom…”

“Promise me.”

And Jesus, he isn’t naive or stupid, he knows Tom loves him, as his best friend and maybe as more, too, but the depth of it still catches him off guard, the weight of it in every word, in every promise, laid out between them. It’s terrifying. He’s not sure he’s done much to deserve it. 

Mark lets out a helpless little laugh, his eyes burning. “You can’t possibly—Jesus, Tom, you can’t really expect me to… to put that on you. That kind of burden. That isn’t fucking fair to you.”

“I think that’s my choice.”

“This isn’t just about me,” Mark says. “Or you.” His fingers are still in Tom’s hair, and he slides his hands down to cup Tom’s face instead, thumbs tracing the tear tracks on his cheek. He made Tom cry. He doesn’t think he’s ever done that before. “You have your own life, your own shit to deal with. Your family, and—and Jen.” Tom frowns at that, opening his mouth to speak, but Mark continues on before he can, can’t let himself stop now, not when his voice is already catching just saying her name, just thinking about this, still the same old jealous bite, the same old feeling of inadequacy, always fighting with her for Tom’s approval, his attention, his time, since she came back into Tom’s life. “You’ve got a good thing going with her. I can’t just show up and keep dragging you into my fucking mess every time I’m falling apart, and ruin that for you. I can’t be that guy, Tom, I can’t do that to you. I’m not gonna let you—”

“You’re not letting me do anything,” Tom says. “And—Jesus Christ. Mark. Jen and I broke up weeks ago.”

It’s like cold water. 

Mark blinks, stunned into silence. “You… What?”

It’s as if Tom had pulled the rug out from under him, and he’s left reeling in the sudden shift of reality. 

He can feel Tom’s jaw clench under his palm, and he almost pulls back in shock, but Tom catches his wrist, holding him in place. His grip is firm but gentle, his eyes still locked onto Mark’s, brimming with emotion.

“Is that why you didn’t come to me for help?” Tom asks softly. “Because I was with Jen?”

Mark barely registers the words. His head is spinning. “You broke up with—When? When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You weren’t exactly answering your phone,” Tom says, and he’s almost gentle about it, no reproach in his voice, but Mark feels the hurt inside him nonetheless, feels it like it’s his own, and the guilt is so crushing it takes his breath away.

He should have been there.

“I didn’t—” Mark’s voice falters. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I should’ve—I was so wrapped up in my own head, I didn’t even—Jesus. Are you… okay?”

Tom’s fingers tighten around his wrist, a silent reassurance. “It wasn’t a big thing, dude,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to talk about it today, this is… this is more important right now. Okay? You’re more important. I just… I want you to know you’re not ruining anything by coming to me for help. Even if Jen was still in the picture—I want to help. I’ll always fucking want to help, Mark. If you’ll let me.”

“I just didn’t want to—You shouldn’t have to drop everything for me. I didn’t want you to feel obligated or, like… you had to choose. Between her and me.”

Tom lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You really think I’d choose anyone over you?” His voice is low, incredulous, tinged with something so raw and sincere that it sends a shiver down Mark’s spine. “Fuck, Mark, you’re the most important person in my life. You always have been. There’s never been a choice. You know I’d choose you. Every fucking time.”

Mark searches his face. “Yeah?” he asks, voice almost a whisper, thick with uncertainty, needing to hear it again, needing to be sure. 

He used to be so sure. He doesn’t know when he lost that certainty.

Tom’s eyes soften, the intensity giving way to something more tender, something almost reverent. His thumb brushes against the inside of Mark’s wrist, along the fluttering pulse. “Yeah,” he says, and there’s a quiet, unshakable conviction in the words that leaves no room for doubt. “Every time. Always.”

A shaky breath escapes Mark, and he closes his eyes. He nods.

“Hey,” Tom whispers. His hand finds Mark’s face, cupping it gently, fingers brushing the side of his jaw. “Look at me.”

Mark opens his eyes, and Tom’s face is so close, his expression so full of concern and earnest affection, all warmth, that it nearly undoes him.

“Promise me you’ll reach out?” Tom asks, voice trembling. “Promise me you won’t shut me out like that again. No matter how bad it gets. I can’t lose you, Mark. I can’t…”

There’s a lump in Mark’s throat. “Tom…”

“Jesus, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Tom says, and he tries to smile, but it looks like it hurts, a pained grimace, his eyes glassy with tears. “I don’t think I could… Just… Promise me. Please. I don’t care what you think you’re sparing me from, okay? I don’t care how bad it gets or how fucking ugly it feels. I’d rather be there for you at your worst than not have you at all.”

Mark’s vision blurs, tears welling up despite his best efforts to hold them back. He feels Tom’s thumb wipe one away, the gesture achingly tender. He swallows hard, trying to find his voice, trying to push past the rawness in his throat. “I’ll try,” he whispers. “I can’t promise, but—I’ll try.”

Tom relaxes a fraction at that, and he exhales in relief, shoulders sagging. “Not asking for more,” he says softly. “That’s—Thank you. Just… Fuck.” He pulls back with a shaky, self-depreciating laugh, wipes roughly at his own teary eyes with the heel of his hand. “Jesus fucking Christ, you got me all kinds of fucked up, Mark Hoppus. I’m a mess.”

Mark exhales through his nose, half a laugh, half a sob. “Sorry.”

Tom smiles at him through the tears, and he reaches out again to touch Mark’s face, to brush his thumb across Mark’s damp cheek. “I love you. You fucking idiot. I love you so fucking much. You get that, right?”

It takes a heartbeat for the words to sink in, and Mark grows still when they do, searching Tom’s face. 

Tom’s eyes are so full of raw sincerity that it almost hurts to look at him at all.

Neither of them have ever said it out loud before—not like this, with this kind of gravity, so earnestly, so honestly, without any protective layer of humor to soften the blow. And maybe part of him already knew, a part of him always knew, but to hear it now spoken aloud—

He wants to believe it.

Tom’s smile fades a little at Mark’s silence, something uncertain and vulnerable crossing his expression. “Hey,” he says softly. So softly.

Mark kisses him.

And even after weeks of distance, after weeks of loneliness, the immediate answering press of Tom’s mouth against his, kissing back without hesitation, without thought, like it’s instinct, like it’s muscle memory, is the final piece that clicks into place, at last an anchor when Mark has been nothing but adrift, familiar and solid and safe. It feels easy. Kissing Tom has always been easy. 

Loving him is even easier.

Jesus fucking Christ, he loves him.

There’s a faint tremor in Tom’s hands against his face, holding him like something precious, something fragile, a slow, uncertain tenderness in the way he kisses, something tentative, like he expects Mark to pull away at any moment, or change his mind, but then his hands slide up into Mark’s hair, fingers curling gently at the nape of his neck, and he pulls him closer, tilting Mark’s head back just so and pressing close and deepening the kiss with a soft, broken sound that echos all of Mark’s longing and fear and need.

It’s like coming home.

Mark can taste their tears on his lips, but he doesn’t mind it, not when the taste is all too quickly chased away by the heat of Tom’s mouth, the quiet, helpless urgency of his kiss, like he missed Mark just as much as Mark missed him, all familiar boyish eagerness and something sharper, more desperate just beneath. He’s always eager when they do this on tour, always hungry, stolen moments in the darkest corners, hidden away, always smiles and laughter and sure hands that know just where to touch to reduce Mark to nothing but need and want and helpless pleasure. 

But this is different.

It’s more than just desire, more than physical need—though Mark feels those too, a low simmering heat that’s burning through the numbness. It feels like their first kisses did, years ago, back when this was still new and terrifying, boys fumbling their way through uncharted territory, only the blind trust between them to guide the way,

Tom kisses like he’s afraid Mark might slip away, like he’s trying to keep him tethered here, to this moment, to this room, to him.

And Mark lets him. He melts into the kiss, lets Tom take the lead, lets him guide him, lets him pour all of that fear and love and relief into the kiss, because Mark needs it just as much as Tom does. He needs to feel grounded, needs to feel wanted, needs to feel like he’s still here, still alive, still capable of feeling something other than the void that’s been gnawing at him for weeks. Needs to feel that this is real. 

They part, but only just. Their foreheads touch, and Tom’s breath fans across Mark’s lips, warm and shaky, and when Mark opens his eyes, he finds Tom watching him, his expression unguarded, raw.

Mark feels like he might shatter into a million pieces. He thinks Tom might just shatter with him.

“Jesus,” Tom murmurs, his voice trembling, his thumb brushing back and forth over the soft skin at the nape of Mark’s neck. “Was that… Was that okay?”

Mark’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Yeah,” he whispers. “More than okay.”

Tom huffs out a shaky little laugh. There’s a flush burning high on his cheeks. “I’m so fucking stupid in love with you, you fucking—Jesus. I love you.”

It’s like he can’t stop saying it, and Mark doesn’t want him to. He’s just not sure he could say it back without breaking.

“Stay,” Mark whispers instead, and he means more than just for the night, means more than just today, and he hopes that’s enough, his voice barely audible, his hand tightening in Tom’s hair. I love you, I love you, I love you. “Stay with me. Please.”

Tom’s eyes soften, his breath hitching. “I’m here,” he says, and there’s no hesitation, no doubt. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

Mark raises the covers a little and Tom slips back under them, settling close, his body warm and solid against Mark’s, fitting into the space beside him like he belongs there.

For a while, neither of them speaks.

Mark fights the urge to just burrow into Tom’s side and hide there until the morning comes, until this darkness has passed and he feels less stripped bare, less raw. Even now, with Tom’s face so close in the dim light that he can’t keep his gaze from lingering on all the soft lines of his features, the faint, tense crease between his brows, even with Tom’s body pressed against his, the silence feels heavy somehow, the weight of everything hanging in the air between them.

Tom tilts his head slightly, brushing his nose against Mark’s, and he smiles a soft little smile when Mark looks up to meet his gaze, his eyes so dark and warm Mark thinks he might drown in them.

Tom is here. Tom is here, right beside him, and his hand is on Mark’s face, his thumb still tenderly brushing along the soft skin under his eyes even as the tears have long dried, and he loves him. He loves him.

The words sit in the back of Mark’s throat, but he swallows them down, can’t say them yet, no matter how much he means them. He already left all of himself bleeding out on the bathroom tiles today for Tom to see, spilling all his guts. This is a last tender part of himself that’s his own alone, held so deep inside him for so many years it might as well be an open wound. He’s not brave enough to say it out loud. 

And Tom knows. He has to know.

Mark hesitates, but when he leans in to kiss him, crossing what little space there is between them, Tom kisses back immediately, eyes fluttering shut with a quiet, contented sigh, and when Mark pushes himself up a little on his elbow, deepening the kiss, Tom responds with soft, eager intensity.

He pulls back only a moment later, and something twists in his stomach when he feels Tom chase his lips, like he isn’t ready to let go just yet, eyes still half-closed, his face soft with yearning. The sight is almost too much. It makes him want to wrap Tom up and never let go, makes him want to press every part of himself against Tom until they’re indistinguishable, until there’s no more room for doubt or fear or loneliness. 

Mark’s fingers trail gently down Tom’s cheek, his thumb brushing over the curve of Tom’s lower lip, slightly swollen from their kiss. 

Tom looks up at him through his lashes, parts his lips a little at the touch.

Mark could keep kissing him for forever. He wants to.

When he crashes their lips together again, it’s with a surge of desperation, all heat and hunger. 

Tom makes a small, needy sound in the back of his throat when Mark bites down gently on his lower lip, and it sends a jolt of something electric through Mark’s veins, a thrill that makes him feel more alive than he has in weeks. He’d forgotten what that feels like. To be wanted like this. To want. He shifts, pushing Tom onto his back, pressing him into the bed, his thigh sliding between Tom’s legs as he climbs on top of him. The sharp pressure of Tom’s hip against his groin, against his slowly hardening cock, punches a shaky breath out of him, half a moan.

Tom’s startled hands fly to his hips. He pulls back a little, his eyes wide and dark. “You sure?” he asks, panting. “We don’t have to… Not that I don’t want you—fuck, I do—but—I don’t want you to feel like you have to—”

“Need this,” Mark mutters. He’s out of breath, and his cheeks burn at the open, desperate want he can hear in his voice, but he doesn’t take it back. His fingers curl into Tom’s shoulder, bunching up the fabric of his shirt—Mark’s shirt, a little too big on his lanky frame, but they’ve been sharing clothes for as long as Mark can think. “Can I…?”

Tom searches his face, his grip tightening on Mark’s hips, grounding him. “Okay,” he murmurs after a moment, and there’s something so tender, so reverent in the way he says it, that it makes Mark’s breath catch. “Yeah, okay. What do you need? Anything. Anything you need.”

“Just—you.”

Tom laughs, choked up, and pulls him down into another kiss by the back of the neck. “You have me,” he whispers against Mark’s lips. “You always have me.”

Mark shifts atop of him, fingers curling into Tom’s hair, and he shivers at the low, approving noise Tom makes at that, at the way Tom’s hands push up underneath his shirt, warm against his skin, the tense muscles of his back.

Their kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more insistent, like they’re both trying to communicate all the things they haven’t been able to say, all the fears and doubts and unspoken words that have hung between them for too long.

The world has felt so fractured lately, so disjointed, and Tom is the one thing that makes sense, the one thing that feels right.

Almost involuntarily, Mark’s hips twitch forward, against Tom’s thigh beneath him, and the friction sends a spark of pleasure through him, so sharp it almost hurts. He has to break the kiss to catch his breath, his forehead dropping to rest against Tom’s.

“You okay?” Tom asks softly. He’s staring up at Mark with wide, searching eyes. They’re all Mark can see.

Mark just nods, can’t form the words, some strangled, choked up sound caught in his throat. He rolls his hips again, more deliberate this time.

Even through the layers of their clothes, the slow drag of his cock against the firm, solid line of Tom’s thigh is enough to make Mark shudder.

A sharp intake of breath. “Are you—” Tom breaks off with sudden realization, and he presses his thigh up a little, must feel the swell of Mark’s cock against his leg, fully hard now. “Oh.”

The heat of a flush creeps up the back of Mark’s neck, burns on his face, half ashamed of how much he needs this, but Tom’s hand just smooths up and down his back under his hoodie, blunt nails dragging lightly against his skin, before it settles on his lower back, fingers splayed wide.

“This feel good?” Tom asks quietly. His leg shifts slightly, adjusting to accommodate Mark, pressing up against him, offering more friction.

Mark nods shakily, and he can’t help the soft groan that escapes him, can’t help the way his hips instinctively move against the pressure, arousal coiling tightly in his core.

“That’s it,” Tom praises, so softly. “There you go.”

He can’t possibly be getting much out of this, not with Mark grinding against his thigh like this, giving him no pleasure in return, but there’s no hint of frustration or impatience on his face. The way he watches Mark, eyes dark with something close to worship, only makes the need burn hotter, more insistent. 

Another helpless moan spills from Mark’s lips, the sound muffled against Tom’s shoulder as he buries his face there, trying to hold onto the thin thread of control. 

“Doing so good,” Tom murmurs against his temple. “Just take what you need. That’s it. Don’t stop. I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

Mark clutches at him, hands shaking, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable. He’s so close, already so fucking close, and Tom’s voice is the only thing tethering him to the here and now, the only thing keeping him from losing himself completely.

One of Tom’s hand slides up to cradle the back of his head, holding him close, and Mark lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing against the warm skin of Tom’s neck. 

Tom’s other hand is still on Mark’s lower back, gently guiding the unsteady grind of his hips, pulling him even closer, pushing him down against his thigh as Mark’s thrusts grow more desperate, more urgent with each passing second.

Each movement, each roll of his hips, draws out quiet, needy sounds that Mark can’t hold back, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts against Tom’s neck.

“Fuck, Mark,” Tom breathes, and the sound of it, the way Tom says his name like a prayer, like a promise, makes Mark ache with something too big to name. “You’re doing so good. So fucking good. That’s it, feels so fucking good, right? You deserve to feel good. You deserve so fucking much.”

“Tom, I—” The words catch in Mark’s throat, and he chokes on them, can’t get them out, can’t say what he needs to say, but Tom seems to understand anyway, because he presses a soft kiss to Mark’s temple, murmuring more babbling, senseless reassurances into his hair.

“It’s okay,” Tom whispers. “You’re okay. Just let go. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

And that’s all it takes.

Mark lets out a choked sob as he buries his face in Tom’s neck, hips stuttering, grinding down hard against Tom’s thigh. The tension snaps, and pleasure crashes over him, white-hot and all-consuming, ripping a low, guttural moan from his throat as he comes, shuddering violently in Tom’s arms.

Tom holds him through it, holds him close, whispering soft words of encouragement and quiet praise. His hand strokes gently through Mark’s hair, anchoring him as he rides out the aftershocks.

Mark slumps against Tom, utterly spent, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He can feel the dampness of sweat on his skin, the way his heart is still racing in his chest, and he’s distantly aware of the mess in his boxers, sticky and uncomfortable, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Tom is still holding him so tightly, so securely, his fingers still combing gently through his hair, soothing him.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of their breathing, the quiet hum of the world outside, distant and muted, as if it doesn’t matter, not here, not now.

Tom is the one who breaks the silence, his voice a soft murmur against Mark’s temple. “You okay?”

Mark nods weakly, his cheek still pressed against Tom’s shoulder, not ready to move just yet. “Yeah,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, rough. “I’m okay.”

Tom’s hand stills in his hair, then shifts to cup the back of his neck, holding him close. “Good,” he says, and there’s something raw in his voice, something that makes Mark’s chest tighten all over again.

He shifts beneath Mark, beneath his weight, a little uncomfortably, and Mark moves off him with a tired groan and curls up against his side, staying close.

The exertion and the heady rush of his orgasm almost make him doze off immediately in warm, boneless exhaustion, but he lifts his head when Tom starts to extract himself from under the arm Mark has slung over his waist with a whispered apology.

“Don’t go,” he mutters, tugging weakly at Tom’s shirt. “Said you’d stay.”

“Shh, no, hey, it’s okay, I’ll be right back, dude, just need to take care of—you know.” Tom gestures vaguely, awkwardly down towards his own crotch, and it’s only now, without the covers and without distraction, that Mark can see how hard Tom is.

The realization is dizzying somehow.

“You’re…”

Mark’s mouth is dry. 

He didn’t even touch Tom. He didn’t even touch him, didn’t do anything but take his own selfish pleasure, take what he needed so badly without any consideration for Tom’s needs, and Tom let him, selfless and sweet to a fault, and—

He didn’t think any of that would have been enough to get Tom hard at all. Mark knows all the ways to get him hard and worked up, knows them by heart after all these years—but maybe he just thought he did. Maybe there are a lot of things he didn’t know.

“That was kinda like the hottest thing that’s ever fucking happened to me,” Tom says, and he grins sheepishly, reaching down to adjust himself through the clinging fabric of his sweatpants. “That was… Jesus. Yeah. Fuck, dude.”

Mark tries to sit up, but his body feels like it’s made of lead. His fingers curl into Tom’s hip. The sight of Tom like this—flushed, disheveled, and so completely aroused—sends a fresh surge of guilt and desire crashing through him. “You want me to…?”

“I’m fine,” Tom says, expression softening. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll just, like, I dunno, take care of it in the bathroom real quick, if that’s okay. Won’t take long.”

“Tom.”

“Dude, I’m not gonna ask you to—”

“I want to,” Mark interrupts. His hand slides up Tom’s chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath his palm. “Please, Tom. Just… let me? Wanna take care of you. Wanna feel you.”

Tom hesitates, eyes searching Mark’s face, before he gives a small nod. His breath hitches as Mark’s hand slips lower, ghosting down his stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugging at it.

“Don’t need much,” Tom mutters, an embarrassed flush burning high on his cheeks, and he settles slowly back against the pillows, shimmying his pants and boxers down his thighs with Mark’s help, kicking them off. 

He’s already painfully hard, his dick flushed and heavy and hot when Mark finally wraps his hand around him, the head glazed and wet and steadily dripping pre-cum onto the faint smattering of hair beneath his navel.

A high-pitched whine escapes Tom at the simple touch, quickly muffled against the back of his hand, his hips jerking up. “Mark.”

Mark hums and lays his head on Tom’s shoulder again, watching his own hand with half-lidded eyes as he tightens his grip slightly, sliding slowly down Tom’s length, spreading the slickness. There’s a strange comfort in doing this for him, in the familiar weight of him in his hand, the velvet softness of his skin, the pulse of his arousal just beneath it, more than just desire, more than just need.

Mark kisses Tom’s shoulder over the shirt and stretches up a little with a tired, contented sigh to press a string of soft, lazy kisses along Tom’s neck, to his jaw, to the sensitive skin just beneath his ear, nuzzling closer and hiding his face there. The scent of him, the warmth of his skin, the quiet sounds of pleasure he makes—it’s all Mark wants. All he could possibly need.

His free hand slides up to caress Tom’s cheek, thumb brushing over his flushed skin. 

Tom’s breathing is already uneven, shaky, all soft whimpers and low groans, always so responsive. He tips his head tip back to give Mark more access, and the sound he makes sends a rush of heat straight to Mark’s core, even though he’s still spent, still coming down from his own high.

“Feels good?” Mark asks quietly against his neck, his lips tasting the skin there, feeling the rapid pulse beneath.

“Feels so good,” Tom breathes.

Mark twists his wrist a little on the upstroke, brushes his thumb over the weeping head of Tom’s cock again, and Tom shudders beneath him.

“You could fuck me, if you want,” Mark murmurs absentmindedly, nosing against the soft skin under Tom’s jaw, pressing a kiss to the same spot.

He doesn’t expect the noise Tom makes at that, all sharp and desperate, doesn’t expect the way Tom’s entire body jerks beneath him, hips stuttering up into his touch. Tom shoves his hand aside and replaces it with his own, gripping himself tight as he fights for control.

“Fuck, Mark,” Tom pants, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling with need. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils blown, as they lock onto Mark, his chest heaving. “You can’t just say shit like that—Jesus, you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

“You want to?”

“Fuck, are you serious?”

Mark makes a quiet, affirmative sound, the softest of hums. His thumb strokes gently along the curve of Tom’s jaw as he presses another kiss to his neck, this one slower, lingering, open-mouthed.

“You keep this up,” Tom grits out between panting breaths, “and I’m not gonna last long enough to do anything.”

Mark laughs. He pulls away and grins down at Tom, and it’s maybe the first time in weeks that a smile comes easy, that he feels that freeing, dizzying rush of joy and affection without any darkness to cloud it.

Tom grins back, lip between his teeth. He pulls Mark down by the back of his neck, crashing their mouths together in a searing, hungry kiss. His other hand slides down Mark’s back, nails dragging lightly along his spine, and the sensation makes Mark shiver, a small sound escaping his throat as he arches into the touch.

Not quite arousal again, not yet, but a need that’s almost sharper than any physical desire could be. He can’t remember the last time he wanted something this badly.

Mark’s hands move almost of their own accord, one sliding up into Tom’s hair, the other slipping under his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, the muscles tensing beneath his touch. The need to be closer, to feel more, is overwhelming, and Mark’s fingers tremble as they work to push Tom’s shirt up.

“Fuck,” Tom breathes out, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank the shirt over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought, and Mark barely has time to breathe before Tom is dragging him in again, mouths colliding with bruising intensity.

“Need you,” Mark murmurs, his voice low, almost a growl, as he nips at Tom’s bottom lip, soothing the bite with his tongue.

Tom groans, the sound vibrating against Mark’s lips, and then he’s pushing Mark onto his back, their positions reversing with a sudden, dizzying shift. Mark lets out a startled laugh as Tom’s weight settles over him, pressing him into the mattress.

He’s not used to being overpowered by Tom of all people, all lanky limbs and soft angles, still more boy than man even at twenty-two, but there’s something exhilarating about it, there always is, whether it’s them playfully wrestling with shrieking laughter and underhanded tactics, or this, this urgent, raw intimacy, isn’t used to being the one to let go and trust that someone else can take care of him. But it’s Tom. It’s Tom, who he’s known since they were nothing but stupid kids, who knows every secret he’s ever had, who’s seen him at his worst and somehow still thinks he’s worth loving.

He doesn’t trust anyone else like this. Doesn’t feel this safe with anyone else.

“This okay?” Tom asks, his voice softer now, more tentative, his eyes searching Mark’s face for any hint of doubt.

“Yeah,” Mark breathes. He pulls at his own hoodie, uncomfortably warm on his sweat-hot skin, too thick. “Help me with this?”

Tom quickly obliges, his fingers fumbling slightly in his haste to help peel the hoodie off of Mark. Mark lifts his arms, lets Tom pull the fabric up and over his head. The cool air feels like a shock against his heated skin, but Tom’s hands are on him again in an instant, warm and firm, sliding over his ribs, his stomach, like he’s mapping out every inch of Mark’s body, reacquainting himself with it, and Mark’s breath hitches at the touch.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” Tom mutters, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud, his voice rough with emotion. The look on his face—that disbelieving look he sometimes gets when they’re in the middle of this, like he can’t believe this is happening at all, like he can’t believe he gets to have this—is almost enough to turn Mark inside out, hooking into some tender part behind his stomach and twisting until he aches with it.

“Shut up,” Mark says, but there’s no bite to it.

Tom just smiles, soft and fond and somehow sad, as he leans down to kiss him again, slower this time, less desperate but no less intense, savoring the moment. His calloused thumb circles one of Mark’s nipples, brushing against the piercing there, and Mark’s gasps at the sensation, a soft moan escaping his lips.

Tom grins against Mark’s mouth, clearly pleased with the reaction. “Like that?” he asks, his voice a low, rough murmur. He sounds almost smug, but his touch is tender, careful.

“Yeah,” Mark admits, breathless. “So—fuck—so good, Tom.”

Tom hums in satisfaction, his fingers tracing lazy circles around Mark’s nipple before he shifts slightly, aligning their bodies, his lips trailing down Mark’s jawline, his hand continuing its exploration down Mark’s chest, over the rapid rise and fall of his ribs. 

Mark lets out a soft whimper as Tom’s mouth moves lower, placing open-mouthed kisses along his throat, over his collarbone. When he reaches Mark’s pierced nipple again, Tom lingers, flicking his tongue over the sensitive metal, sending a shiver down Mark’s spine.

The sensation is almost too much, and Mark lets out a ragged moan, his hands fisting in the sheets, as Tom lavishes attention on the tender skin, alternating between sucking gently and teasing with the tip of his tongue. Mark’s breath hitches, and he can’t help the way his hips jerk up, seeking friction, needing more, so much more.

“So sensitive,” Tom teases, and he looks up at Mark through his lashes, a playful glint in his eyes.

Mark breathes out a shaky laugh, the sound rough and edged with desperation. “Fuck you,” he mutters, his voice trembling. It’s all he can manage when Tom’s mouth is on him like this, when Tom is driving him out of his mind with every touch, every word.

Tom just grins, the teasing smile softening into something more earnest, more vulnerable. “Maybe later,” he murmurs, and he presses another kiss to Mark’s chest, right over his racing heart. The gesture is so tender, so sweet, that it sends a pang of something fierce and overwhelming through Mark, and he has to bite his lip to keep from saying something he isn’t ready to say.

He’s already half-hard again, his body thrumming with need, and the heat of Tom’s dick against his thigh, even through the layers of his clothes, is enough to make him shudder with anticipation. “Tom,” he pants. “Please, I need—”

Tom shushes him, crawling back up to kiss him again. “Shh, I know, I got you. Want you so fucking much. Let’s get these off.” His hands skim down Mark’s sides, hooking into the waistband of his boxers, clumsily tugging them down along with the sweatpants, and Mark lifts his hips and pushes them down the rest of the way, huffing in frustration as they get caught around his ankles, kicking them off impatiently.

Tom laughs at his eagerness, his hand curling around Mark’s waist. “You got it.”

“C’mere,” Mark whispers, tugging at Tom’s shoulders, and Tom leans down, their bodies aligning as he presses his weight back into Mark, their bare skin finally, finally touching. The sensation is electric, and Mark lets out a soft gasp at the heat of it, the closeness, the way Tom’s cock slides against his own, hot and slick with pre-cum, the friction almost too much, too good.

Tom groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through Mark’s chest, and he kisses him again, harder, more demanding, his tongue sweeping into Mark’s mouth as their hips start to move together, slowly at first, then more desperate, more frantic, as the need builds between them.

Mark’s hands find purchase on Tom’s back, fingers digging into the firm muscles there, urging him on, pulling him closer. Tom’s mouth never leaves his, their kisses growing messier, more breathless, as the tension coils tighter and tighter in Mark’s gut, spiraling out of control.

“Need you inside me,” Mark gasps out between kisses, his voice wrecked, pleading. “Tom, please.”

A low, strangled whine tears from Tom’s throat and he breaks the kiss, panting, his forehead pressed to Mark’s. “Okay,” he breathes. “Fuck, okay, yeah, just—Hold on. Do you have—?”

Mark blinks up at him, momentarily disoriented. He’s dizzy with arousal, breathless, trying to get his sluggish mind to work, trying to remember. They never hook up when they’re back at home, never in their own beds, and he hasn’t had a reason to keep anything on hand for a while, no relationships or other people in his bed, only him and his own hand, and even those moments have been few and far between lately, with everything that’s been going on. “I don’t think… Fuck, nightstand maybe?”

Tom shifts off him, despite Mark’s quiet noise of protest, reaching clumsily for the bedside table, almost managing to overturn the tray of dishes sitting on top of it as he fumbles with the drawer, rummaging through it.

Mark’s head drops back into the pillows, trying to catch his breath. “Tom,” he whines, and he barely cares how desperate he sounds.

“Shit, okay,” Tom mutters. He pauses, empty-handed, and for a second, the air is thick with their panting breaths, with the heady weight of anticipation. Then he laughs, a breathy, shaky sound that cuts through the tension just enough to ground them both. He collapses on his back besides Mark, running a frustrated hand down his face, flushed pink up to his ears and down his chest. “We’re so fucking unprepared, dude.”

Mark snorts, despite himself, despite the helpless arousal still pooling low and hot in his belly. “Yeah. Fucking amateur hour.”

Tom’s still grinning, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes now, something softer, and he leans in to press a gentle kiss to Mark’s forehead, an apology wrapped in affection. “It’s okay. We can just… I mean, I’m good with anything. You know that.”

“I know,” Mark murmurs, and he does. They rarely enough get to go this far when they’re on the road, so they usually get by with rushed handjobs or blowjobs in the back of the van, or quiet, desperate fumbling under the covers in whatever cheap motel they’re crashing in for the night, and rarer still that Mark is able to let his guard down enough to actually let Tom take the lead for once, that he’s able to let go of all the shit that usually holds him back. 

They don’t need to fuck to make this good. They never have. It’s already good. But this is something different, something softer, more intimate, this lazy, unhurried warmth, and it makes his heart ache in a way that scares him a little, makes him want in a way he so rarely lets himself want.

Mark groans, low and frustrated. “Fuck, need you so bad, though.”

Tom giggles, presses a quick kiss to his mouth. “Could suck you off,” he offers playfully. “Mhm, could suck you off so good—”

“Tom, I swear to God—”

“Okay, okay, just need—something. Anything. You got, like, fucking lotion or some shit?”

“There’s, uh—” Mark starts hesitantly, his face heating up even more as he glances towards the door. “There’s some coconut oil in the kitchen. I use it for cooking sometimes. That should work, right?”

Tom follows his gaze, and the smile that spreads across his face is all bright teeth and mischief. “Yeah,” he says, voice soft, almost teasing. “That should work. I kinda know my way around coconut oil.”

“Yeah, I bet you do, you fucking pervert.”

Tom laughs as he rolls out of bed and stumbles towards the door, a little unsteady on his feet. Mark can’t help but smile as he watches Tom hurry out of the room, still half-hard and flushed, naked and awkward and eager. 

There’s a certain sweetness to it, an innocence in the way Tom doesn’t even bother to hide his excitement, like they’re two teenagers sneaking around for the first time.

As soon as Tom disappears into the hallway, Mark collapses back onto the bed, letting out a long, shaky breath. His body is still thrumming with need, the dull ache of desire making him squirm against the sheets, but there’s something more than that. There’s a tenderness blooming in his chest, a warm, comforting feeling that has nothing to do with the physical, and everything to do with the way Tom looked at him just now, with that mix of affection and awe, like Mark is the only person in the world that matters.

He bites his lip, trying to hold back the flood of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him. He just wants to focus on the present, on the way his skin still tingles from Tom’s touch, the press of his lips, on the anticipation of what’s about to happen when Tom gets back. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and he turns his head just in time to see Tom re-enter the room, a small jar of coconut oil clutched triumphantly in his hand. The sight of him, the familiar curve of his smile, the way his hair is slightly mussed, makes something twist tight in Mark’s chest. 

He’s so fucking in love with him that it’s almost unbearable.

“Got it,” Tom announces, his voice breathless with excitement as he climbs back onto the bed, his eyes bright, and the eagerness in his gaze almost palpable. “You still good?”

Mark huffs a laugh, trying to keep it together, trying not to drown in the overwhelming affection he feels for this boy. He reaches out, fingers curling around Tom’s wrist, tugging him closer. “C’mere. Want you. Missed you.”

Tom crawls back over to him, and Mark lets his legs fall open around him. The anticipation is a live wire, humming just beneath Mark’s skin, making him hyper-aware of every little thing—the cool air against his heated skin, the weight of Tom’s gaze, the way their breaths sync up as Tom settles between his thighs, kneeling between them.

“Okay, so, uh…” Tom begins, voice cracking slightly as he fumbles with the lid of the jar, scooping out a generous amount of the oil, warming it between his hands. “This is gonna be… a little awkward, maybe, but—”

“We’ve done this before,” Mark reminds him. “Come on, don’t need much.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t—You never let me… Not in a while, so—”

“Tom,” Mark breathes, and there’s a note of impatience in his voice now, his body thrumming with need. He’s so close to begging, so close to just telling Tom to hurry the fuck up, but there’s something in the way Tom is looking at him, like he’s savoring every second, every touch, that makes Mark want to hold on just a little longer.

“So fucking eager for it,” Tom teases, and he grins, that boyish, lopsided grin that always makes Mark’s heart stutter the way it did that very first day. “I’ll get you there, dude, have some patience. I’ll make this so fucking good for you.”

Mark laughs helplessly. “Sorry.”

Tom soothes a hand over his quaking thigh, down the sensitive inside of it. “Don’t wanna hurt you,” he says, softer. “So just lemme do this.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Just trust me, I know what I’m doing. I’m, like, the fucking guru of gay sex.”

“Okay, I need you to stop talking, or my boner is going to die.”

Tom laughs out loud. “Can’t have that.” He slides his hand, slick and warm with oil, up the apex of Mark’s thighs, and Mark lets his legs open wider at the touch, drawing them up to his body to give Tom better access, too aroused to feel self-conscious at how vulnerable he’s making himself, at how much trust he’s putting into Tom’s hands. He shudders as Tom’s fingers brush over him, circling gently, teasingly. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

“Please…”

Tom’s eyes flick up to meet his, something unspoken passing between them, and he lets his free hand curl up gently around Mark’s knee, pushing it up a little more as he finally presses a finger into him, slow and deliberate.

Mark’s breath hitches, but it’s more from the relief, the way his body welcomes the intrusion, the way the stretch feels good, so fucking good after all this time. “Fuck,” he breathes out, his hips canting up slightly, seeking more.

Tom hums in response, brow furrowed in almost comical concentration, trying to get this right, trying to make this good. His touch is steady as he works him open, patient but firm, adding a second finger when he feels Mark relax into the sensation, the tension in his body melting away.

“So good, Tom,” Mark murmurs, the softest of praises, and Tom glances up at him, his smile almost shy, biting bis lip. 

Always looking for his approval, even now, even after everything that happened, after cleaning up after all the ugliest, messiest parts of Mark he saw today. Always that coltish, awkward boy Mark met in that tiny garage years ago, who thought Mark was the coolest guy to exist. Sometimes Mark almost thinks Tom might still think of him that way.

The pace of Tom’s fingers picks up slightly, more confident, scissoring gently to stretch Mark further, and Mark’s breathing quickens, a soft moan slipping past his lips as Tom brushes against that spot inside him that makes his vision go white at the edges, any clear thought slipping from his grasp.

“Fuck, right there,” Mark gasps, his hands scrambling for purchase, gripping the sheets tightly.

Tom curls his fingers again, hitting that spot again with clumsy precision until Mark is a trembling mess beneath him, his cock leaking onto his stomach, his body strung tight with need. “You’re so fucking hot like this,” Tom breathes, and there’s awe in his voice, like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “God, you’re so fucking perfect, Mark, you don’t even know.”

“Tom,” Mark moans, his voice wrecked, desperate. “Please. Need you.”

“Just a little bit more,” Tom soothes. “I’ll get you there.” He turns his head to press his lips to the inside of Mark’s knee, trailing upwards, placing lazy kisses on Mark’s inner thigh, each one bringing a fresh wave of goosebumps, and when he reaches that spot right at the juncture where thigh meets hip, he lingers, sucking lightly at the skin there, teeth grazing and tongue soothing the sting, and it’s all Mark can do to keep from arching off the bed.

Tom looks up at him through his lashes, flushed cheek resting against his thigh, his fingers still working him open, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable, his own arousal evident in the way his breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, his lips slightly parted, and his pupils blown wide. Mark’s heart skips a beat at the sight, at the way Tom seems just as desperate, just as caught up in the moment as he is.

“More?” Tom asks, his voice low and rough, and when Mark nods, Tom nuzzles against the crook of his thigh, burying his nose in the patch of hair there, inhaling deeply like he’s trying to memorize the scent of Mark’s skin, the warmth of him. He mouths at the base of Mark’s cock, his tongue hot and wet, as he adds a third finger, stretching him so effortlessly Mark can’t do anything but let his head fall back against the pillow with a low, broken moan.

His hips rock up against Tom’s hand. The dual sensations of the slow thrust of Tom’s fingers, curling into him, and the heat of his mouth pressing lazy kisses up the length of Mark’s cock, have Mark teetering on the edge of control. He’s so close already, the pleasure coiled tight in his belly, and Tom is still being so fucking careful with him, like Mark might break if he’s not gentle enough, and it’s almost too much to bear.

But Tom knows him. Knows his body, knows his limits, knows how to push him to the brink and pull him back, how to make him fall apart and put him back together again. He knows Mark in a way that no one else ever has, and Mark trusts him, trusts him with everything he is, everything he has.

Just as he’s about to come undone completely, Tom draws back, his fingers pulling out with agonizing slowness, and Mark can’t help the soft whimper that escapes him at the loss, but Tom is quick to soothe him, crawling up his body and pressing tender kisses along his stomach, his chest, his arched throat, until their mouths are aligned again and he’s kissing him, slow and deep, swallowing his needy moan.

“Easy, I got you, I got you,” Tom murmurs. “Fuck, Mark, you’re driving me fucking insane here, just… hold on. Not gonna fucking last if you keep this up.”

Mark’s laugh is a breathy, helpless thing. His fingers curl into Tom’s arm as he shifts above him, thumb smoothing along the line of his biceps in a trembling caress, and he watches, panting and impatient, as Tom slicks himself up with the oil. The sight of it—of Tom’s hand around his own length, of the way his cock is flushed and leaking, just as desperate as Mark feels—makes the desire under his skin burn even hotter.

Tom lines himself up, his free hand guiding Mark’s leg higher around his waist, angling him just right, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against Mark’s entrance, and he hesitates only for a moment, finding Mark’s gaze and holding it, before he pushes into him.

There’s a moment where all Mark can do is breathe, feel, as Tom presses deeper, every inch of him sliding in smooth and slick and hot and so fucking good it makes Mark’s head spin.

It’s only when Tom is fully seated inside him, hips flush against Mark’s, that the world snaps back into focus and the strangled moan that’s caught in his throat finally spills from his lips, his head falling back against the pillows.

“Oh,” he breathes, “Oh, fuck, Tom.” His hands slide up to Tom’s back, his nails biting into his skin, grounding himself in the reality of this, of them, as he adjusts to the delicious, burning stretch, the fullness of it, the intimacy, the dull pleasure coiling in his belly. “Tom.”

He’d forgotten just how right it feels to have Tom this close, this deep, can so rarely even let himself fantasize about this without that familiar sting of embarrassment, that creeping thought that he shouldn’t want this as much as he does, that he isn’t allowed to want this. But now, with Tom buried inside him, stretching him perfectly, all of those insecurities dissolve. The only thing they leave behind is the sheer, overwhelming pleasure and the warmth of being connected like this, skin against skin, hearts beating in unison.

It’s like every nerve in his body is singing with the intensity of it.

Tom’s forehead drops against his with a shuddering exhale. He’s trembling in Mark’s arms, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his hips as if he’s afraid he might fall apart if he lets go. “Okay?” he asks, voice strained and rough with effort, the strain of holding back evident in the taut, tense line of his body. “Mark, fuck, are you—”

“Yeah,” Mark manages. He rolls his hips up experimentally, seeking more, needing more, and the motion draws a hiss from Tom, his grip on Mark’s thigh tightening. “Feels so fucking good, Tom, I’m good, please—fuck, please, need you to move, need you—”

Tom lets out a shaky breath, a sound that’s half groan, half sigh of relief, and then he’s moving, pulling back just enough before sliding back in, the slow drag of his cock against Mark’s inner walls making Mark’s toes curl, his breath hitching in his throat.

Mark cups Tom’s face in his hand, feels it hot and flushed against his palm, and he has to swallow when Tom leans into the touch, looking down at him with raw, breathless intensity.

“Please,” Mark breathes, his voice trembling. His nails dig into Tom’s shoulders as he rolls his hips up again, desperate for more friction.

“Mark, fuck,” Tom grits out, his pace picking up in earnest now. “You’re so fucking perfect, I—” His words cut off in a choked gasp as Mark pulls him down into a bruising kiss. They both lack the coordination to make it anything more than a messy clash of teeth and tongues, but it’s perfect in its desperation. Tom groans into Mark’s mouth, and Mark swallows the sound greedily, arching up into his thrusts.

Mark’s own arousal is a hot, insistent pulse, his dick trapped between their bodies, leaking pre-cum onto his stomach, and every thrust, every drag of Tom’s cock inside him, only pushes him closer to the edge, his entire body trembling. He has to turn his head, breaking the kiss, to draw in a ragged breath.

Tom buries his face in the crook of his shoulder, his breath hot against Mark’s neck as he murmurs soft, broken praises, his words slurred with arousal. “So good… fuck, you’re so good… taking me so well, Mark, so fucking perfect. You feel so fucking good, I can’t—Not gonna last long, fuck, I’m sorry, so fucking close.”

“Me too,” Mark says, curling his fingers around the nape of Tom’s neck, squeezing gently. “It’s okay, just keep going. Don’t stop.”

Tom groans, low in his throat. “Where do you want me to—Fuck, hold on, I can pull out if you—”

“No,” Mark interrupts breathlessly. “Don’t. Don’t you dare. Want you to come inside me.”

Tom’s breath catches at that, and Mark can feel the way his entire body reacts, the way Tom’s cock twitches inside him, his hips stuttering at Mark’s words. He pulls back just enough to look down at Mark, panting, his eyes wide, pupils blown. “Fuck, are you sure?”

And usually Mark would hate the mess and the vulnerability that comes with it, would cringe at the thought of what comes after, the aftermath, the clean-up, especially on the road when it’s waking up alone and cold with their release sticky and gross between his thighs, when it’s cheap motels and dirty gas station bathrooms alongside endless highways, when it’s sneaking around other people, awkward glances and careful check-ins, talking around what happened because acknowledging it beyond dumb jokes means making it real—but right now, with Tom inside him, so close, so raw and real and desperate above him, Mark can’t think of anything he wants more.

“So sure,” he pants. “It’s okay. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you. Please.”

“Yeah,” Tom breathes, still staring at Mark in quiet, reverent awe, in a way that makes Mark feel like he’s unraveling, like every single piece of him is laid bare and open. Then his eyes darken with something more primal, more desperate, and he nods, swallowing hard. “Okay. Yeah, fuck, okay.”

Tom shifts, finding a better angle, and then he’s thrusting into Mark again, deep and slow and just barely in control of himself, and the sound that rips from Mark’s throat is pure, unfiltered need, clutching desperately at the sheets.

Tom finds Mark’s hand, their fingers intertwining, and he pushes their joined hands into the mattress above Mark’s head, leaning down to kiss him again, softer this time, almost tender, even as his thrusts grow more frantic. 

The room seems to shrink around them, down to only the two of them, only the places where their bodies connect, only the brush of their lips, their shared breath.

Mark’s mind is a haze of sensation, every nerve in his body alight with need and desperation, and he can’t stop the way his hips keep rocking up to meet Tom’s thrusts, chasing every ounce of friction, every inch of Tom’s cock as it fills him over and over. He’s trembling, teetering on the edge of something huge, something that feels like it could tear him apart and put him back together again all at once.

“Tom,” he whispers, the word half a plea, half a warning. He squeezes Tom’s hand, holding on tight, while his other hand scrabbles for purchase against Tom’s back, nails raking lightly down the taut muscles there, desperate to anchor himself, to hold on as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm him.

“I know,” Tom groans, his pace faltering slightly, becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. “I’m right there with you, Mark. Fuck, I can’t—”

“That’s it,” Mark murmurs, his voice rough, strained. “Want to feel you come for me. Please, Tom, want to see you—”

Tom’s hips snap forward in response, his thrusts growing sloppy, and then he’s burying himself as deep as he can go, breathing Mark’s name, his voice breaking as he comes.

Mark can feel it, the hot pulse of Tom’s release inside him, the way Tom’s body shudders with the force of it, and it’s that, that and the raw desperation in Tom’s voice, the way his name sounds on Tom’s lips, that finally tips him over the edge again. He lets out a choked sob, the orgasm ripping through him with such intensity that he can’t even think, can’t even breathe. His dick jerks between their bodies, and he spills over both of their stomachs, hot and slick, as the pleasure courses through him in wave after relentless wave.

He’s distantly aware of Tom groaning, still moving, riding out his own release as Mark’s body clenches around him, and then he collapses against him.

For a long moment, the world is nothing but the sound of their panting breaths, the rush of blood in Mark’s ears, and the feeling of Tom still buried deep inside him, warm and spent.

When the haze of pleasure finally begins to fade, leaving behind a heavy, sated warmth, Mark opens his eyes to find Tom staring down at him, breathing hard, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief. Mark blinks up at him, still trying to catch his breath, and he can’t help the soft smile that tugs at his lips when Tom leans down to kiss him, slow and sweet.

“Hey,” Tom whispers against his lips, the word barely more than a breath, but it’s full of so much affection that it makes Mark’s chest ache.

“Hey,” Mark replies, his voice hoarse.

Tom smiles, pressing another soft kiss to the corner of Mark’s mouth before slowly, carefully, pulling out of him. Mark lets out a soft sigh at the loss, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of their release. 

Tom is gentle as he moves away, slipping out of bed with a wince, a hand pressing lightly to his lower back as he stretches. 

The room is quiet now, the air heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and the faint hint of coconut. 

Mark’s body feels languid, relaxed, like he’s sinking into the mattress, every muscle loose and content. He watches Tom, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“I’ll get a towel,” Tom says. “Don’t move.”

Mark wants to protest, wants to pull him back down onto the bed, wants to keep him close, but he’s too spent to do anything but hum in agreement as Tom slips out of the room. He’s already half asleep by the time he feels the bed dip beside him again, and he barely stirs as Tom gently cleans him up, only winces a little as the damp towel brushes up between his thighs, but the discomfort is minor and all too quickly chased away by Tom pressing an apologetic kiss to his shoulder and curling up beside him. Mark instinctively shifts towards his warmth, and Tom’s arms wrap around him, pulling him into a loose embrace, their legs tangling together as they settle.

“Believe it or not,” Tom says, after a brief moment of comfortable silence, “I didn’t actually plan for that to happen when I came over.”

Mark lets out a soft, breathy laugh, nestling closer. He sets his chin on Tom’s shoulder, pressing a light kiss to the warm skin there. “Which part?”

“Jesus, any of it,” Tom says, half a laugh, half something a little sharper, a little more uncertain. He hesitates, brushes his fingers through Mark’s hair, the gesture tender, almost absentminded, before he asks, very softly, “Was this… okay? I know you asked me to, but—I didn’t hurt you, right? Was this good?”

Mark gives a sleepy hum. He props himself up a little more to be able to see Tom’s face. “Yeah,” he breathes. “This was… fuck, this was perfect. I don’t know. Think I needed that. Haven’t felt that in a while.”

Tom snorts. Some of the barely there tension bleeds from his shoulders. “Yeah, it has been a while since you let me fuck you. You’re not usually this fucking needy for it, either. You can just say you missed my dick and I won’t be offended, you know.”

Mark swats at him half-heartedly, and Tom laughs out loud and presses a wet kiss to the corner of Mark’s mouth, another to his cheek, and another to his nose, making Mark scrunch up his face in mock annoyance.

“Not complaining about it, dude,” Tom says lightly. “Was so fucking hot. You never let me see you like that. Usually, it always feels like you’re holding back somehow. Didn’t feel like that tonight.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Mark mutters. “That’s not what I meant, though.” 

“Okay, what did you mean?”

Mark winces and rolls onto his back, away from Tom. The distance burns cold against his side, and he can see Tom’s amused gaze turn into one of confusion out of the corner of his eyes. Mark hesitates, staring up at the ceiling. “Meant, like, I don’t know. Coming. Like, at all.”

Tom gives a startled laugh, but his smile fades when Mark doesn’t join in. “What, a fucking orgasm? Are you serious? When’s the last time you…” Mark can almost see the wheels turn in his head. Can see the moment it clicks. Tom props himself up on his elbow, frowning down at him. He looks almost comically horrified at the mere thought, but Mark can’t even bring himself to laugh at his expression. “Wait, hold on, you haven’t jerked off since we got back? Because I definitely made you come that last night on tour. Had your cum drying in my fucking hair and everything.”

Mark shifts uncomfortably under Tom’s scrutiny, his eyes darting away. Embarrassment burns hot under his skin, a flush creeping up his neck. He shrugs. “Yeah. Guess it’s been a while.”

“Dude, you need to jerk off. For, like, your health and shit,” Tom says, with far more seriousness than the statement warrants, and despite himself, Mark lets out a choked laugh. “I’m serious. I’m not just talking out of my ass, that’s, like… science. It’s good for you.”

“What, you’re a proctologist now?”

“A what?”

“Jesus.” Mark runs a hand down his face. “Fuck, it’s… I don’t know. Kinda was too fucked up to jerk off, dude.”

Tom stares at him.

Mark gestures vaguely out towards the room, his apartment—the mess that accumulated on the ground, on every surface, the dirty clothes and take-out containers and bottles, the entire sad, pathetic sight of it. The state of him. “I couldn’t really, y’know… I dunno. But I wasn’t doing anything at all, anyway. Didn’t get out of bed, didn’t eat, didn’t—I just… didn’t have the energy for any of it. Think I just felt too shitty.”

“Mark,” Tom says softly. He shifts closer, and Mark can feel the warmth of his body again, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and it’s almost enough to make him turn back over, to let Tom’s presence soothe away the anxiety building in his chest.

“It’s not that I didn’t want to,” Mark says, his voice quieter now, hesitant. “Just… every time I tried, I couldn’t get there, you know? Felt too… disconnected or something. Like I wasn’t even in my own body. Didn’t really feel human at all on most days.” He grimaces, hating how even just saying those words out loud makes him feel like he’s putting some ugly, miserable, unlovable part of him out there for Tom to see. “I don’t know. I just… couldn’t. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Tom says immediately, and his hand comes to rest on Mark’s chest, right over his heart. “Hey, it’s not stupid, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Tom’s thumb brushes gently over his sternum, a faint caress. “You’re going through a lot of shit right now. It’s normal your body’s gonna, like, stop cooperating at some point, when your head’s all fucked up.” He shifts even closer, ducking his head to catch Mark’s gaze, and there’s a teasing little smile on his face, something playful in his voice when he speaks again. “And it’s not like your dick doesn’t work or anything. Seemed to work pretty well tonight. How often was that? Twice? Like Jesus, dude, leave some for the rest of us.”

Mark huffs out a laugh, a genuine one this time, even as he rolls his eyes, and the knot of tension that’s been sitting heavy in his chest loosens just a little. He turns his head to look at Tom, and the warmth in Tom’s eyes makes his heart ache, a sweet, sharp pang.

“We’ll get you through this, alright?” Tom says, soft and earnest. “This fucking… fucked-up, miserable rough patch you’re in. We’re in this together. You and me. We’re a team. Whatever it fucking takes, however long it takes. We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Mark swallows hard, and for a moment, he can’t speak, can’t do anything but nod and blink rapidly to push back the sudden sting of tears. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve Tom’s friendship, his loyalty, his love, any of it. He lets out a shaky breath, his hand coming up to cover Tom’s where it rests over his heart. “You’re gonna make me fucking cry again.”

“No more crying tonight,” Tom says, and he moves to cup Mark’s face with a gentle hand, leaning in to kiss him. “Actually—there’s something I wanted to try. To make you feel better.”

“I’m not getting hard again tonight,” Mark says dryly, and he has to fight back a smile when Tom lets out a startled laugh at that. He stretches a little. “Mhm, don’t think I’d be able to move much at all. So do your worst, I guess.”

“That’s fine, I don’t need you to move for this, dude. I’ll do all the work, I promise. Just… roll onto your stomach for me?”

Mark shoots him a skeptical look, but he doesn’t argue, just rolls over with a tired groan, wincing as the movement makes the faint, dull ache in his lower back shoot up his spine. 

He rests his cheek on his arms and glances back over his shoulder, watching in faint amusement as Tom sits up beside him, searching the tangled mess of sheets around himself with a concentrated frown until he finds the jar of coconut oil, still open.

“If you put your gross coconut fingers anywhere near my ass right now, I’m going to kick you out of this bed,” Mark mutters, without any heat.

Tom snorts, rolling his eyes as he scoops some of the oil into his hands, warming it between his palms. “Dude, would you just fucking trust me? I’m a professional.”

Mark lets out a small huff, but lets his head fall back down onto his arms.

The mattress dips as Tom shifts closer, and Mark feels the first brush of Tom’s fingers on his back, warm and slick from the oil. It’s a gentle, almost tentative touch, as if Tom is testing the waters, quickly growing more confident, and Mark’s breath hitches as Tom starts to work the oil into his shoulders with slow, firm strokes, startled at the tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding in his back, all the stress and exhaustion and anxiety of the past few weeks, or months, knotted up in his muscles. Startled at how good this feels.

“A massage?” he asks, voice muffled.

“Yeah, you’re so fucking tense, dude. Don’t ever say I’ve never done anything nice for you.”

“Think normally the happy ending is supposed to come after the massage, not before,” Mark comments with a small, teasing smile, hidden in the crook of his elbow.

Tom laughs. “Guess I’m just that generous.”

His thumbs press into a particularly tight knot between Mark’s shoulder blades, and Mark can’t help the low groan that escapes him as the pressure eases the ache there, his muscles loosening under Tom’s careful ministrations.

“See? Not so bad,” Tom murmurs, his voice soft and affectionate, as his hands continue their slow, deliberate path down Mark’s back, kneading out the stiffness in his lower spine.

Mark hums in agreement, his eyes slipping shut as the tension drains out of him with every pass of Tom’s hands. He can feel himself starting to drift, the soothing rhythm of the massage lulling him into a state of near-total relaxation—the warmth of Tom’s hands, the way his thumbs dig in just right along his spine, the calm, steady sound of his breathing. It’s grounding, in a way, like Tom is pulling him back into his own body, back to himself. “Feels good,” he admits quietly, the words slurred with sleepiness. “Maybe I need to hire you more often. You should charge for this, you know.”

Tom huffs out a soft laugh, his hands pausing briefly to smooth over Mark’s sides before continuing their path down, rubbing slow circles into his lower back. “Magic fingers, dude.”

“Sure,” Mark mumbles, already half asleep, his body sinking deeper into the mattress.

Tom leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of Mark’s neck, and Mark sighs at the gentle affection.

“Get some rest,” Tom murmurs. The press of his hands becomes gentler, less a massage and more a caress now, fingers trailing up and down the line of Mark’s back, and he’s silent for a moment as his lips brush against Mark’s shoulder, his breath ghosting warm over his skin. “I’ll be right here. Not going anywhere.”

Mark doesn’t have the energy to respond. He barely manages a soft hum of acknowledgment as sleep starts to pull him under.

He’s vaguely aware of Tom moving, the bed shifting as he settles beside him, the covers being pulled up to envelop them both in a cocoon of warmth. Tom’s arm slips around his waist, pulling him close until his back is flush against Tom’s chest, and he instinctively melts into the embrace, feeling safe, always safe when he’s with Tom.

The last thing he registers before he drifts off completely, in the silence and the calm and the warmth, so faint he almost thinks it’s a dream—

He thinks he hears Tom start to cry.

* * *

Mark watches in faint amusement and no small amount of wariness as Tom piles more food onto his plate.

“You made pancakes,” he repeats flatly, like this whole thing is going to start making sense at some point. 

“I don’t think it actually counts as making them if it’s pancake mix,” Tom says, only half paying attention, precariously balancing another hot pan over from the stove to push some bacon onto Mark’s already overloaded plate. “But yeah, figured you could use some breakfast. You need to eat, dude. Get some energy back. Some protein and shit.”

“Carbs,” Mark says, just to say anything, staring at the heaping pile of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. He’s still bleary-eyed with sleep, fingers loosely curled around a mug of coffee Tom pressed into his hand the moment he walked in. “Pretty sure pancakes are just carbs.”

“Same thing.” Tom slides into the chair across from him, with a plate of his own. He pauses and frowns at Mark. “Would you just fucking eat? I promise I’m not trying to poison you.”

Mark picks up his fork with a roll of his eyes. The pancakes are a little burnt around the edges, the eggs slightly runny, and the bacon is more crispy than he likes—but it’s good. Better than it has any right to be.

He takes a few bites, letting the comforting warmth of the food settle in his stomach. There’s something grounding and confusing about the domesticity of it all—sitting together at the small kitchen table of his apartment, the morning light filtering through the blinds, the smell of breakfast food filling the air.

Sometime this morning when he was still asleep, Tom must have cleaned up around the apartment, tidied up the mess, taken out the trash, straightened the place enough to make it look almost respectable again.

Mark isn’t sure what to do with any of that.

He doesn’t know how to reconcile this version of Tom—the one who makes breakfast and gives massages and cries with him and holds him through the night—with the one he’s known for years, that awkward, bright-eyed boy he met so long ago, always a little reckless, a little wild, a little loud, a little too quick to brush things off with a joke and a grin.

He glances up to find Tom watching him, his own fork hovering over his untouched plate, as if he’s waiting for some sort of verdict.

Mark takes another bite, chewing slowly as he studies Tom, trying to ignore the sudden self-consciousness prickling at the back of his neck. “You gonna eat, or just stare at me like a creep?”

Tom blinks, then lets out a small, embarrassed laugh, a faint pink flush rising to his cheeks. He shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth before speaking, his words muffled around the food. “Just making sure you don’t, like, keel over on me mid-bite.”

Mark huffs, but it’s more amused than annoyed. “Your cooking isn’t that bad.”

“The highest of praises,” Tom teases, and he grins. “I’ll take it.”

Mark smiles despite himself, shaking his head as he continues to eat.

The silence between them is easy, comfortable, broken only by the quiet clatter of forks against plates and the occasional sip of coffee.

“Gonna take your ass out on a walk today,” Tom announces casually in between bites, his mouth full.

Mark looks up. “What am I, a dog?”

“It’s sunlight, dude,” Tom says, waving his fork in Mark’s direction. “It’s good for you. Some fresh air. I’ll take you down to Mission Beach, we’ll grab some coffee, hit up that one taco stand on the way. Watch the waves, make fun of the fucking tourists. It’ll be fun.”

Mark stares at him, trying to gauge how serious he is.

“We can make it, like, a daily thing,” Tom continues, like he’s been planning this out. He stabs a piece of bacon. “Doesn’t have to be the beach every day, or anything crazy, but y’know, just getting out of the apartment, doing something. Just a quick walk, maybe ten or fifteen minutes if you’re up for it.”

Mark lets out a helpless, disbelieving laugh, trying to ignore how his chest suddenly feels like it’s caving in under the weight of the sheer self-sacrificing kindness of it all, the care for him. 

He doesn’t quite know why he’s surprised. It’s only now, hearing Tom plan out their day over breakfast like it’s nothing, like it’s just something they do, sketching out a routine and a future, that he realizes he’d assumed things would just go back to what they were before last night. That Tom would leave, maybe with a joke and a half-hearted promise to hang out again soon, and Mark would be alone again, back to the mess of his life, back to his own head. That this would just be another one of those things they don’t talk about, a passing moment of tenderness buried under a mountain of insinuating jokes and unspoken truths.

But this is different. This is new, and unexpected, and it’s terrifying in a way that makes Mark’s throat close up with the kind of fear that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with vulnerability.

No one has ever tried to take care of him before. He’s never let anyone try, never let anyone close enough for that. 

The question slips out before he can stop himself. “Why?”

“Because it’s good for you. Getting out, getting some air—”

“No, that’s not what I—Why are you doing this?”

Tom blinks at him, his fork halfway to his mouth, clearly caught off guard. “What do you mean, why am I doing this?”

“Why are you here?” Mark asks, more sharply than he means to, more desperately. “Why are you doing all of this for me? You could be doing a million other things, and instead, you’re… making me pancakes and… making sure I eat and fucking cleaning my apartment and taking me on walks, and—” He stops, feeling suddenly stupid, like he’s overthinking everything. Like he always does. He sets his utensils down and leans back in his chair, running a shaky hand through his hair, over his face. “Whatever this is,” he finishes lamely. “Whatever last night was.”

“I told you I’d stick around,” Tom says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious answer in the world. He smiles a little, playful and sweet. “How many times have you been there for me? I mean, someone’s gotta look out for you for a change, right?”

“You don’t have to do all this.”

Tom’s expression softens, the teasing lightness in his eyes giving way to something deeper, more genuine. “I know I don’t have to. But I want to.”

The sincerity in Tom’s eyes, the way he’s looking at him—like this isn’t some burden, like it’s something he genuinely wants to do—makes it hard to breathe.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Mark says quietly, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to keep it steady. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to take care of me, like I’m some fucking—”

“Hey, stop,” Tom interrupts, his tone gentle but firm. He reaches across the table to take Mark’s hand, covering it with his own. “Jesus, dude. This isn’t a fucking pity thing, okay? I’m not here out of obligation, or because I think I owe you, I’m here because I care about you. Because you’re my friend. My best fucking friend. That means something to me. You mean something to me. You—Christ. Mark, I’m here because I love you.”

The words sound different in the daylight. Softer. Less like desperation and more like quiet, irrefutable truth.

Mark’s eyes burn. He’s silent.

I love you.

Tom squeezes his hand. “And if that means making sure you eat, or dragging your ass out of bed for a walk, or just… being here when things get rough, then that’s what I’ll do.” He leans forward, gaze fixed on Mark. “You’re not getting rid of me, asshole, so you might as well get used to it. I’ll crash on the fucking couch if I have to—until tour, after it, whatever, for as long as you need me here. Just… let me help. I want to.”

Mark blinks, the sting of tears sharp in his eyes. He swallows hard, trying to push down the lump in his throat, and he looks down at their joined hands, Tom’s thumb tracing soothing circles over his knuckles. “I’m not good at that,” he admits quietly. “Letting people help. Letting them in. I don’t know how to do that.”

“Yeah, dude, I know,” Tom says, almost teasingly, his voice warm with affection. “I kinda know how your stupid fucking head works by now. It’s just me, okay? Just me.”

Just Tom. If there’s anyone he could trust with all of himself, it’s Tom. Of course it’s Tom. No one else, only Tom, the first person he ever met who understood him without having to ask, who just seemed to get him in a way no one else ever did, effortlessly, from the first day, from the first minute, like their souls aligned under the glow of that streetlight in that quiet cul-de-sac in Poway, with Tom’s laughter echoing in the warm night air.

And he’s still here. Even after yesterday, even after everything he saw, the ugliness and the darkness, the sharpest, rawest, most pathetic parts of Mark that he can’t show anyone else.

He’s here.

Mark huffs out a small, watery laugh, a sound that’s half relief, half disbelief. “Yeah,” he whispers. He squeezes Tom’s hand back, a silent acknowledgment, a quiet thank you. “Yeah, okay.”

Tom smiles at him, wide and genuine, and for a moment, it feels like the sun breaking through the clouds, the warmth of it chasing away the lingering shadows in Mark’s mind. “Yeah?”

“I guess letting you crash here isn’t the worst thing in the world,” Mark says lightly, and he smiles when Tom scoffs in mock offense.

“I gave you a fucking massage, you ungrateful dick,” Tom shoots back, but he’s grinning like an idiot even as he says it, smiling around the words, and he’s still holding Mark’s hand across the table, and he doesn’t let go. “I made breakfast.”

“And you cleaned,” Mark teases. “I didn’t know you actually knew how to do that. I’ll remind you of that when we’re on tour again and you’re leaving your shit all over the bus.”

Tom’s grin softens, and he lifts Mark’s hand to his lips, pressing a quick, playful kiss to his knuckles before letting go. “Eat,” he says, nudging Mark’s plate towards him, still half full. “Finish your breakfast before it gets cold, and then we’re hitting the beach. Gotta get your pasty ass some sun, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming.”

Mark rolls his eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Fine, fine,” he mutters, picking up his fork again. “I’m gonna make you carry me back, though.”

“Dude, you got it—piggyback ride, bridal style, whatever you want. Just say the word. I’m all yours.” Tom takes another bite of his breakfast, still smiling like he’s won something. Maybe he has.

“Alright, but if you drop me, I swear—”

“I won’t drop you,” Tom interrupts, giving him a look that’s half exasperation, half fondness. “What do you think I am, some kind of fucking amateur? I’ve been working out, dude.”

“Well, I know that’s not true.”

“Fuck off. Would you just trust me?”

“I do,” Mark says, all affection. “You know I do.”

Tom just reaches for his hand again and squeezes it, and Mark squeezes back.

It’s a strange feeling, being cared for like this, without expectations or demands. He’s not used to it. Not used to someone wanting to be there for him just because. 

But when Tom reaches across the table to steal a piece of bacon from his plate, a familiar, mischievous grin on his face, Mark feels something in his chest loosen, just a little.

Maybe, just maybe, he can believe that Tom really does love him—not out of pity or obligation, but simply because he’s Tom, and that’s what Tom does. He loves fiercely, without reservation, without hesitation, without asking for anything in return.

And Mark thinks he can try to let himself be loved. Even if it’s hard, even if it scares him.

When they’re done, Tom clears the table, stacking their plates in the sink with a clatter. Mark watches him, feeling a little dazed, a little lighter, like the heavy fog that’s been hanging over him is finally starting to lift. He stands up, stretching, his muscles protesting from the night before, and moves to help Tom with the dishes, but Tom waves him off with a playful scowl and a grin, gently nudging him aside.

“You just ate, dude. Let me do this. Go get dressed or something, I’m not taking you out in just your cum-stained boxers.”

Mark wrinkles his nose and laughs. “Gross, dude.”

“You’re gross,” Tom laughs, just barely managing to sidestep Mark’s playful swipe before it lands, and he splashes suds and soapy water back at Mark. “Get out of here!”

Mark relents with a giggle, but he presses a quick kiss to Tom’s cheek before he can overthink it, lingering just long enough to catch the soft, surprised smile that blooms on Tom’s face, the faint flush on his cheeks, before he heads to the bedroom.

As he pulls on a pair of shorts and an old, faded T-shirt, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and for the first time in far too long, he doesn’t immediately avert his eyes. He still looks tired, worn down, a little too thin, a little too pale, his hair a mess, but the dark circles under his eyes aren’t as pronounced as they were yesterday, the tension in his shoulders not as severe.

Tom’s right. Maybe getting out of the apartment will do him some good.

The sky outside is a perfect shade of blue when he glances out the window, the kind of blue that almost hurts to look at, so clear and wide that it makes the whole world seem brighter.

He can’t remember the last time he looked outside at all, let alone the last time he actually wanted to go outside, but it feels less daunting now, with daylight flooding every room, the blinds open, the sound of birds and distant ocean waves filtering in through the slightly cracked window.

When he returns to the kitchen, Tom’s finishing up with the dishes, his back to Mark as he hums something softly under his breath.

There’s something achingly domestic about the scene, something Mark isn’t used to, and it tugs at something deep in his chest. He feels a strange urge to memorize this moment, to lock it away somewhere safe and secret where he can revisit it when the world starts to feel too overwhelming again.

“I love you too, you know,” Mark says, the words slipping out before he can stop them, before he can second-guess them. They hang in the air between them, heavy and fragile, and for a split second, Mark feels his heart stutter in panic, that familiar spike of anxiety, like he’s opened himself up too much, shown too much of his vulnerable underbelly.

But then Tom turns around, dish towel in hand, and the look on his face is enough to chase that fear away.

Tom’s eyes are wide, his lips parted in surprise, but he starts to smile—a slow, dawning smile that lights up his entire face. 

Mark thinks he’ll always remember that. That look in his eyes.

Tom wipes his hands on a dish towel, tossing it onto the counter, and steps closer, closing the distance between them, something anxious and unsure and hopeful in the way his eyes search Mark’s face. “You don’t have to say it just because—”

“I’m not,” Mark cuts in, shaking his head. “I mean it. I’ve—hell, I think I’ve always meant it, but I just didn’t know how to say it. Or maybe I was scared to say it. But I do. I love you.”

Tom takes another step forward, close enough that Mark can feel the warmth radiating off him, can see the flecks of green in his brown eyes, the tiny, faded scar over his eyebrow from that time they went skateboarding as kids and Tom took a nasty fall.

He still remembers dabbing the blood from Tom’s forehead with his own shirt so Tom’s mom wouldn’t freak out when he got him back home, telling jokes to distract him from the pain.

Tom’s hand comes up to cup Mark’s cheek, his thumb gently tracing the line of his jaw, and his eyes are so open, so full of everything he’s feeling, that Mark feels like he might drown in it. “Well, you’re never getting rid of me now,” he teases, but he’s breathless as he says it, his voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and joy.

Mark lets out a small, shaky laugh, and he leans into Tom’s touch, pressing his cheek into the warmth of his palm. “Wouldn’t want to even if I could,” he admits quietly.

“Jesus,” Tom mutters. He wipes at his eyes with a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “I love you so much, you fucking—Fuck, Mark. I love you.”

Mark kisses him, soft and unhurried, and Tom breathes a trembling sigh against his lips, all but melting into him. It’s only a brief press of lips, and when they pull apart, Tom buries his face in the crook of Mark’s neck, dragging him into a crushing hug, breathing him in, and Mark threads his fingers through Tom’s hair.

He closes his eyes. 

For once, he’s not thinking about what comes next, about the mess of his life or the tour or anything else. He’s just here, in this moment, with Tom’s arms around him, feeling the quiet, steady thrum of something that feels a lot like hope.

And maybe he’s allowed to have this. A bit of joy, a bit of love, a bit of hope, just this once. Just for him.

For the first time in a very long time, he feels like he can breathe.