Chapter Text
For as long as he could remember, it had always just been Mark and Grandpa. Their house was the smallest in the neighborhood, but it was more than enough for a preschooler and a retiree. There was a stream running through the yard that Grandpa and Mark took care of everyday—or, Grandpa took care of it while Mark gave the fish feed that had been crushed between his pudgy, uncareful fingers. Everyday was an adventure, Mark running circles around his spry but slow grandfather, stealing strawberries from the side of the porch before they were ready, chasing the neighbors’ cat. Mark didn’t really wonder about his parents. He had Grandpa, and that’s all he would ever need.
But one day, his dad came and took him away.
His dad was a very big man, maybe even twice as big as Grandpa, and he didn’t really look like either of them. He spoke a language that wasn’t English sometimes, but it wasn’t what little Korean Mark and his grandfather knew. Mark didn’t understand how this man could be his dad, but Grandpa said that he was. Mark didn’t want to go with him. His eyes were so cold and blue.
He saw Grandpa less and less, and then not at all.
When William stopped little league, Mark had to as well. His dad would only make time to pick him up after practice in the evening, but he wouldn’t stop by in the middle of the day just to take him there if William’s parents were no longer dropping off the two of them after school. William asked why they didn’t see each other as much anymore—surely they could have playdates instead of practice? Mark told him he had to take the bus home now, but he wasn’t allowed to get on one that didn’t belong to the school yet. He wasn’t big enough, and he didn’t have any money. William measured the distance between the tops of their heads and said Mark looked like a third grader so that didn’t make any sense, and shouldn’t he have an allowance? Mark explained again that unless William’s parents had the time to drive Mark home after a playdate it just couldn’t happen.
“Why don’t we have a sleepover? Then you could take the bus home tomorrow.”
Mark thought about it. He didn’t have anything with him, but he could turn his shirt inside out for school tomorrow or just live through the teasing of having worn the same shirt twice in a row. He could put toothpaste on his finger, sleep on the couch or on top of the sheets, bathe when he was home the next day. He didn’t really care about any of that right then, though. He just thought about going to sleep in a house that wasn’t empty, and one where the few people in it actually cared about him.
“Okay!”
“..Don’t you have to ask your dad first?”
Mark shook his head. Screw his dad.
“He, uh, said that would be okay a while ago. If someone ever asked. So it’s okay.”
He probably won’t even notice.
“Yes!”
William threw a fist in the air, jumping in place. Mark watched him and hesitantly copied the actions a half-step behind, hoping his version was satisfactory. William quickly took his hand and tugged when Mark didn’t squeeze back or follow, complaining about how unfair it was that Mark got to be bigger when he’s the younger one. William’s grip was nothing like his dad’s. William couldn’t make him do anything. But Mark let William pull him to his father’s car, resisting just enough to feel made to.
William’s father didn’t even notice that there were two children in his car until they came halfway to William’s house, the two children giggling and hushing each other the whole way.
“Mark!” He could see Mr. Clockwell’s smile in the rearview mirror, the amusement in his eyes as William groaned and flopped around in the backseat for being found out. “How are you today?”
“Great! How are you, Mr. Clockwell?” Mark tried to keep his smile even as he felt the car begin to slow and pull to the right. His mouth went flat soon enough, just trying to keep his eyes dry by the time Mr. Clockwell stopped the car.
“Now Mark,” Mr. Clockwell turned in his seat, giving Mark his full attention, “you know I don’t mind you and William spending time together, but can you let me in on your plans next time? I’m sure your dad is very worried about you right now.”
Mark shook his head.
“No! The bus wouldn’t even be home yet. He doesn’t know.”
Mr. Clockwell tried a different smile, but Mark had no idea what it was meant to achieve.
“Yes, but he should know, shouldn’t he, Mark?”
Mark bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. William got to go home with Mr. and Mrs. Clockwell everyday and all Mark had was his crappy dad. It wasn’t fair.
“He doesn’t mind!”
Mr. Clockwell sighed and pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was harder to lie to him than to William, who wanted to believe Mark anyways.
“Mark, son..”
“Daaaaad, please, please, can Mark stay over? His dad said it was okay!”
“Oh, really? Did you talk to Mark’s father, William?”
William grabbed onto Mark’s arm in support, nodding vigorously. It did make Mark feel better, but he could tell they weren’t convincing Mr. Clockwell, who was raising an eyebrow at his son, glasses askew. He looked tired, and suddenly Mark felt very bad for getting into his car unannounced.
“I’m sorry Mr. Clockwell! I just-” Mark spied his reflection in the window. There was something about the way his brows pulled down when he lied. “..I don’t know what I was thinking. He didn’t say I could go. I’m sorry.”
That made him crack a smile again.
“Thank you for being honest, Mark.” He sent a look to William, who pouted and held onto Mark tighter. “Now, you live northside, don’t you?”
Mark nodded. He had no idea, but it was probably true, because Mr. Clockwell was right about most things and often asked questions he already knew the answer to. Mr. Clockwell checked the time and sighed.
“I suppose you’ve missed the bus.. Alright, I’ll get you boys home–” William cheered, “–BUT. But I’ll have William’s sister drive you straight to your home, okay Mark? I don’t have the time to go the opposite direction today, I do apologize.. What building do you live in?”
Mark at least knew the name, even if he couldn’t point it out on a map, and told him. He didn’t know his dad’s phone number. He promised to really ask his dad next time and to even bring a note. Mr. Clockwell told him he was always welcome in their home, and that he wasn’t angry. He told him William’s sister’s name, Francesca, and William stuck his tongue out. Mr. Clockwell filled the time by explaining that both his children pretended they were only childs, like Mark, since they were so many years apart. He thought they were very similar people despite the age gap, and William gagged at the implication like it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever heard. Mark thought it would be fun to have a sister, except she’d have to be younger than him so he could teach her everything cool he knew. But it would also be nice to have an older sister who could drive him to little league.
They didn’t spend much time at William’s house—in fact, Mark never got past the driveway, Mr. Clockwell having shuffled the two of them into Francesca’s car before taking off again. William wasn’t allowed to be home alone.
William and his sister bickered the whole way to Mark’s building, William complaining about having to see her stupid face after school and his sister saying it was even worse to see William’s ugly, toothless mug after a long shift at Burger Mart. If it had been a kid at school saying such things to him, William would have been in tears, but he just said something profane back to her before Mark could come to his defense. Franny laughed and called him something worse. Mark had never heard William use such language before, and he felt like his seat might have been a little crooked. He thought he was bad for even just thinking the words—if he repeated them out loud he might cry, so he stayed quiet the whole ride and tried very hard to attract as little attention to himself as possible.
The doorman of Mark’s building raised an eyebrow at William and Franny, but let them through without question when Mark waved at him. The two walked him to his and his dad’s apartment, and even though he was the subject of the excursion, he felt left out and wrong-footed. William had never made him feel that way before. Even though they argued, Mark could tell William just liked his sister more than he liked Mark. It made his ribs feel small, his breaths coming in more shallowly. He liked William more than he liked his dad, so why wasn’t it the same?
William hugged him before he went inside the empty apartment, and Mark couldn’t resist hugging him back, but he closed the door before anyone could say goodbye. He pretended not to hear William’s shout of protest and trudged to his room, slamming the door shut.
It would have been the perfect day for a sleepover. His dad didn’t even come home. Mark spent the whole night flipping through his dad's rough drafts and manuscripts that were certainly above his lexile instead of having dinner with William and his family.
Mark came to school the next day with a handwritten note from his father saying he was allowed to spend the night at William’s. It even had his phone number in case of an emergency, but Mark told Mr. Clockwell that his dad was really busy with work and would prefer not to be disturbed if he didn’t need to be. He was at least telling the truth here, and Mr. Clockwell believed him.
Mark was really proud of how the note turned out.
Mark had only ever had pasta from a restaurant, cold by the time his dad brought it home, bits of it crusted over and hardened by the microwave if he bothered to warm it up. Maybe Franny wasn’t a Michelin star chef, but somehow her broken spaghetti from a box tasted so much better than anything he’d ever had. They reheated some meat sauce Mrs. Clockwell made the night before, but on the stove because Franny insisted. Mr. and Mrs. Clockwell came home before they finished dinner and joined them. They even let Mark and William share a soda they brought home. It wasn’t too late, so they made the boys bathe and change before putting on a movie Mark had never seen before—it was from last year, something Franny had dug up in a DVD bin for half off. She didn’t join them, which Mark was glad for because it meant William’s attention was only on him and the movie instead of fighting with her. Mark thought he had warmed up to her and her spaghetti a little, but he still didn’t like being ignored.
The movie was- bad, objectively, but Mark still felt all the highs and lows of the characters. When they were angry his hands tightened into fists and when they cried, he almost did too. He was more into it than anyone else—his dad only let him watch educational ones, which were fun, but not all the time. It was cold in the house because of the rain outside, but Mrs. Clockwell brought out the warmest blankets Mark had ever been under. He was already clinging onto William’s arm out of tiredness when the thunderous knock came at the door, and he jumped straight off the couch at the sudden sound.
Mr. Clockwell paused the movie and got up to check. It was his dad at the door, expression unreadable. Mark felt the hair on the back of his neck raise up.
“Oh! Mr. Grayson, what a surprise–”
“Nolan.”
“Uh, right, Nolan, I hadn’t realized you wanted Mark home..? In your note you said it was okay for him to stay the night.”
“My 'note' said that, did it? I had to call the school.”
Mr. Clockwell blinked, slowly seeming to realize what Mark had done. He took the note out of his pocket, slightly crumpled, and handed it over without a word. Mark’s dad barely spared it a glance before locking eyes with Mark. He held onto William’s arm tighter. His dad took a single step past the entryway, and Mr. Clockwell just let him. Mark wanted to throw a tantrum right there, to yell and cry and throw something until everyone stopped and let him finally have something he wanted. His dad didn’t even like him, so what did it matter that he was with people who did? He didn’t even know about yesterday, so why did he have to butt in on Mark’s life today?
His dad marched over to him, his footfalls coming down heavier than they really should have. Mr. Clockwell kept his head down as he pushed past him. Only William really came to his defense, wrapping his arms around Mark’s shoulders and pouting upwards the same way he did to his parents. Of course, it didn’t stop Mark’s dad from getting a hold of Mark’s wrist and pulling.
William stomped his foot and squeezed him tighter. Mark couldn’t breathe.
“Aww, c’mon Mister Nolan! Why can’t Mark stay? We don’t get to hangout anymore!”
“William.” Mrs. Clockwell chastised him with a whisper, but she didn’t move from the couch.
His dad actually bent down to William’s height, easily bringing Mark’s wrist to his chest as he glared. When Mark tried to shove William behind him, his dad just huffed warm breath on both their faces.
“Did you put my son up to this?”
William was shy of other kids, but not so much of adults. Mark was somewhat the opposite, and put his free hand over his friend’s mouth before he said something stupid again. With William’s arms wrapped tightly around him and his dominant hand pressed to his father’s sternum, he just ended up elbowing William in the face, which at least got him to let go, even if he looked hurt. Mark avoided both their eyes as he took a step toward his dad.
“I wrote the note.”
His dad had that look on his face he sometimes got—it was too dramatic for disappointment, but plain anger didn’t seem to capture the full feeling of it. Mark just categorized it as both, and treated it the same way he did with most of his dad’s emotions—he waited quietly until it was over. It never lasted too long, but for that moment even the rain seemed to have stopped. When he could hear the droplets pattering again, his dad stood to his full height and didn’t let go of Mark’s wrist despite his compliance. They were out of the house in seconds, Mr. Clockwell saying something about having a goodnight and staying dry.
Mark wasn’t wearing any shoes, but his dad was dragging him through the puddles anyways. It sucked. Why couldn’t he just drive like normal parents? When they were far enough away from William’s eyes peering through the windows, Mark tried to take his arm back. It was no use, but Mark could tell it at least annoyed him, so he struggled until he started crying from his dad’s ever tightening grip.
Through tears he shouted, “Why do you have to ruin everything?”
Maybe he couldn’t hear Mark over the rain. Maybe he couldn’t tell what came from his eyes and what came from the sky. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
Mark was shivering and soaked through by the time they made it to their building. His feet—or what could be seen of them through the mud and gunk from the street—were bright red and sore. His dad ended up having to carry him the rest of the way, which neither of them were happy about, but at least it got him to let go of Mark’s arm, which was already starting to bruise. The doorman stood up to say something when he saw the two of them, but he kept quiet after a look from Mark’s dad. He had that effect on a lot of people. Even Grandpa, sometimes.
Mark cried as quietly as he could in front of their apartment door as his dad fetched him a towel to clean his feet with before he could go inside. He didn’t want to be like everyone else. He didn’t want to be scared. He wiped away his tears when his dad returned to wipe off his feet, both of them silent until Mark was allowed in.
“Go get some clothes. You’re taking a bath.”
“I already took one.”
“You’re filthy.”
That’s your fault.
Mark obeyed and went to his room. It was an utter mess—clothes strewn about, every door left open, his desk pulled away from the wall. His hero figurines had fallen to the floor, and one of their heads had come off. The room looked like the sole victim of a bear attack, or a robbery. He knew who must have done it, but it didn’t make him feel any less exposed.
He went quietly into the bath his dad drew for him and ignored how his feet stung with every step. He stayed submerged long after the water had lost its comforting warmth, not wanting to interrupt whatever the sounds his dad was making around their apartment were. His dad came to get him out of the tub not long after the sounds stopped. He held Mark’s hand gently, too gently, like it might break. But Mark wasn’t going to break from this, he never had. The touch just annoyed him.
Mark let himself be led to bed and tucked in, because apparently nothing he said mattered and nobody could stop his dad anyways. He was too big.
His dad sighed, kneeling next to the bed, and his cheek dropped onto Mark’s blanket.
“Why did you do this to me?”
Mark shrugged, unsure if he was actually supposed to answer. When the silence dragged on for too long, he realized his dad was still waiting.
“You didn’t come home last night either,” Mark pointed out. “I didn’t think it would matter.”
“Mark, I get so scared for you. You’re so young, so fragile.. You could have been really hurt and I wouldn’t have known until it was too late.”
“I’m bigger than William, and he’s older.” Mark said, unable to say that sometimes he got scared when he was alone too. “And I told Mr. Clockwell to call you if there was an emergency. I didn’t even give him a fake number, so it wasn’t really a big deal.”
“Yes, Mark, it was. I had no idea where you were–” Mark resisted the urge to say that he never did. “–I had to call your school, and they wouldn’t give me the Clockwells’ address for the longest time—all time you could have been, you could have been... This is just the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Mark, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I dunno.. I guess I just didn’t want you to take me away again.”
His dad’s blue eyes went cold, and he stood up without a word. Mark’s blanket was wrinkled and worn where his hand had been. He didn’t bother shutting the door behind him, and Mark now saw this was because there wasn't a door attached anymore. That’s what he must have been doing while Mark was in the bath.
He turned away from the gaping frame and fought off tears when his gaze landed on the empty spot in his room where his hero figurines had been. It was just as well, he reasoned, successfully keeping from crying, because they weren’t coming to save him anyways. His chest burned from holding it all in, but he felt a sense of deep satisfaction for not making a sound by the time he felt ready to go to sleep. He had never quite managed it before, but something in him felt shifted, settled. His life would probably continue this way as long as his dad was in it, but he promised himself it was never going to hurt this bad again.
The first thing Nolan noticed when he walked in the apartment was that Mark’s shoes were not by the door. He sighed, picking at a rough patch behind his ear and sighing more deeply when flecks of dried blood stuck to the pads of his fingers. Usually this meant Mark was upset, and was most likely moping on his bed with his shoes still on. Probably he would demand that Nolan comfort him and fix his problems, and then he would have to do laundry days early because Mark would simply refuse to fall asleep in a dirty bed—nevermind it’s his own fault—and Mark would be red-faced and teary-eyed the whole time because his son really did want to do it for himself, but he was too little to reach the dryer and Nolan still hadn’t gotten around to getting a stool for the place, and it would be even more humiliating for Nolan to lift him to height.
It was the last routine on Earth he wanted to do after the day he had. Maybe it could wait? Mark wouldn’t know Nolan was home until he knocked on his bedroom door for dinner, or if he managed to self-soothe and come out before then, which was just as well, if not better. Nolan rubbed his fingers together, watching the brown, pilling flakes drop to the floor. He could take some time for himself. Just sit on the couch for a while, enjoy the quiet. Mark wasn’t often quiet, and neither were what passed for heroes or villains on this planet.
Nolan felt- something, at finding opportunity in his son’s suffering, no matter how negligible it must be, and yet still he carefully never touched his feet to the floor on his way to the couch. He didn’t put on any entertainment and simply sat in silence, staring at the dark television screen. They were all Mark’s movies now, anyways, and he didn’t feel like reading or writing.
He stayed still like that for an hour or so before he started to worry. Mark hadn’t been crying or punching his pillow over grade school drama when Nolan came home, and he wasn’t crying over multiplication or spelling now. Nolan gripped the arm of the couch, stopping himself from getting up. Mark was probably reading a comic, except he wasn’t laughing or acting it out, either. So maybe he was reading his chapter book—wasn’t he supposed to be finished with it by next Monday? Except he hadn’t come out to find Nolan for help with any of the words yet. Well, okay, maybe his son was smart and didn’t need help this time. But maybe he did and was just struggling on his own. Mark didn’t even know he was home yet.
Nolan sighed when he realized he stood up. If he must.
“Buddy, you okay in there?” Nolan called out.
There was no response.
“Mark!”
He regretted the silence now.
“Markus!”
Nolan slammed his son’s door open harder than he meant to, the hinges groaning in protest. It was void of his little son and his shoes. This was ridiculous—Nolan could hold his breath for days at a time, so why did his chest feel so tight? He threw open the closet next, checked under the bed, flew to the bathroom and searched every corner, checked even the medicine cabinet. The balcony was still locked, but he checked there as well, tore his own room apart. He should have– it wasn’t just Mark’s shoes missing. It was his backpack too.
He was nowhere to be found. Nolan swallowed.
“..Markie?”
Of course, there was no answer. He’d already looked everywhere. It was like- It was just like–
Debbie, where is Mark?
Except this time, it was all him.