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“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Mark says to himself.
He’s staring up at this house--is it even a house? It should be called a mansion--wondering if he’s got the right address. Honestly, he feels like this can’t possibly be right, because anyone needing his services wouldn’t live in this house.
Mark pulls up his phone, double checking and triple checking the address that his supposed employer texted him after they’d squared away the details. Apparently, this guy’s son needed tutoring in math, college level math, and Mark is pretty good at that. But they’d interviewed in a coffee shop--this can’t possibly be the house, could it?
Getting out of his car, Mark psychs himself up for the awkward interaction that’s likely going to go down in the next few moments. He’s going to get to the door, introduce himself, and the door is going to slam in his face because he’s got the wrong house. But he’s got nothing else to go on at this point, and sucking in a breath, he marches up to the huge ass entrance with determination.
He rings the doorbell, and Mark swears it echoes throughout the house before the locks click, and the doors open.
“Mister Fischbach?” the door keep inquires, and that throws him off.
He clears his throat. “...Yes?”
“Good,” the man says. “Mistress McLoughlin is waiting for you. Master McLoughlin is unavailable at the given moment, but she’ll take care of your questions and concerns.”
The man raises a hand, and Mark, trying to find his words, follows him through the house.
It’s more massive on the inside. Mark stares at the place, at all the paintings adorning the walls, the carpet that looks more expensive than his entire apartment, and honestly he’s not sure if he’s dressed properly to be in here.
“This way, sir,” the man addresses him, and Mark nearly winces. He’s not a sir by any stretch of it. But he doesn’t correct him as the door keep--butler?--directs him to an office door.
The man knocks once, before announcing, “Mister Fischbach is here.”
“Send him in,” a feminine voice replies, and the man steps aside, allowing him in.
Mark awkwardly turns the doorknob and enters the room.
What greets him is a massive, yet somehow comforting room. The walls are a warm olive color, with matching carpet and patterned curtains. The desk is a deep brown, with papers littering the top of it, all next to a computer monitor. There’s a filing cabinet off to the side, neatly organized and shut, under lock and key, and there, at the desk, is who he presumes to be ‘Mistress’ McLoughlin.
She has kind eyes. She smiles at him. “Mister Fischbach. Please, take a seat.”
It’s only now that he notices the chair in front of her desk, and he forces himself to stop staring and sits down in the chair, lacing his fingers together.
“Morning, madam,” he says, offering her a nervous smile. “I hope you’re well.”
“Oh, please,” she sighs, the words coming out in what appears to be an Irish droll. “No madam. It makes me feel old. I’d much prefer you call me Juliana.”
Mark lets out a breathless laugh. “I am certainly...not comfortable calling you that. I’m sorry. Can I at least put Miss in front of that?”
“Perfect,” she says, and her smiles widens. “Relax, I’m not going to eat you. I understand that you and my husband had worked out an arrangement?”
“I was told that I’m going to tutor your son all summer,” Mark elaborates. “Is that still the case?”
Miss Juliana nods. “Yes. Poor Jack’s just no good at math. He inherits that from me, unfortunately. He’s taking some classes over the summer, and he needs a little help. He’s about your age, I think. How old are you, Mister Fischbach?”
“Mark,” he says, and when she stares at him, he continues. “Mister Fischbach reminds me of my dad. Mark’s my first name. And I’m, uh, twenty three.”
“Wonderful,” she sings. “Jack is twenty two. I’m sure it’ll do him some good to be around someone his own age.”
He thinks about asking what that’s supposed to mean, but he guesses that’s too personal, and it’s not any of his business anyway.
When Mark doesn’t answer, she claps her hands. “Well. Now that we’ve got that established, let me explain to you some of the rules. Since you’re working for us now, we’ll be here are some basics. You’re always welcome to spend the night here if you end up working with Jack late into the night--just ask Arthur, he’s the man who showed you in, where you’ll be staying. We’ll be paying you every two weeks, at a rate I presume my husband already discussed with you?”
“Yes ma’am,” Mark replies. “It’s very generous of you.”
Miss Juliana waves it off. “Ideally, we’d like for you to visit with Jack daily, at least for the first couple of weeks, but we understand if you have obligations. Just please let one of us know if you need to cancel for any reason.”
Mark nods, ignoring the way his leg jostles back and forth--a nervous tic he has.
“We will be giving you a little test run,” Miss Juliana comments easily. “Just to make sure you and Jack get along alright. I do hope you can understand that.”
“Perfectly,” Mark tells her, and he means it. “Sometimes people don’t connect well, and he won’t very well learn from me if he doesn’t like me.”
She’s got this look in her eye as he says this, and he can’t for the life of him figure out what that means.
“I’m glad you understand,” she says, and her smile’s back, but it’s got something to it that he wants explained. He doesn’t mention it. “Well, enough of all the business talk. I think we should let you meet him, shall we?”
Mark gives her his best charming smile, rising to his feet. She extends a hand out to him, and he takes it, giving it a firm shake. “We look forward to working with you, Mark. My husband’s away on a business call right now, but he should be back sometime this weekend. He’ll want to meet with you again, I’m sure.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Mark says. “So, I guess I’ll go and meet Jack?”
Miss Juliana stands herself, and walks around the desk. She exits the office and gestures for him to follow. He does so.
“He’s probably upstairs,” she explains as they enter the foyer. Approaching the staircase, she begins to walk up it, her shoes clacking on the wooden stairs.
The upstairs is even more ornate than the downstairs, full of long hallways and more photographs. Along the walls are photos of children, group photos, and the Mister and Missus themselves, and Mark wonders which of them is Jack.
Finally coming towards a room near the end of the hall, she knocks on it once. “Jack? It’s mom. Would you like to meet your tutor?”
Mark listens, and vaguely hears the sound of something, but can’t quite make it out. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, as Miss Juliana knocks again. “Jack. Come on, don’t be rude.”
Finally, the door creaks, and it swings open to reveal one of the most beautiful people Mark’s ever seen.
He’s ridiculously pale, but there’s something charming about that. Jack stares at him with wide, icy blue eyes, his hair dyed an electric green. He’s wearing black jeans, ripped at the knees, leading up to a dark grey t-shirt of a band Mark does not know in the slightest.
“Oh,” Jack drawls out, and he sounds even more Irish, if that’s possible. “Another one? Really, Ma? Already?”
Mark feels his cheeks heating up involuntarily, and he tears his gaze away.
“Sean McLoughlin,” Miss Juliana scolds him, and Mark connects the dots that Sean is perhaps his real name. “Mark is a very capable young man, and your grades aren’t getting any better, you know.”
Jack narrows his eyes at her in a way that would’ve gotten Mark slapped upside the head at home. He murmurs something under his breath, barely audible to anyone, but Miss Juliana seems to have caught it. Maybe Mark just isn’t paying attention to the familial spat.
“You keep talking like that and I’ll ground you,” she warns. “You’re twenty two, Sean. Please act like it.”
Then she turns back to Mark, all sunshine and smiles again. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Please don’t hesitate to tell me if he’s acting out of line.”
Miss Juliana turns, and exits the hallway, leaving Mark to stand there with tension so thick he could cut it with a knife.
Licking his lips, he says, “Uh. So I’m Mark.”
“I got that,” Jack replies coolly. He sticks out a stiff hand. “Jack. You can, uh, come in I guess.”
It sounds like a weak greeting at best, and just as Mark is reaching out to awkwardly accept the handshake, Jack’s withdrawing it and turning around.
He shuffles into the room, ignoring the way that Jack slams the door behind him.
It’s a nice room, spacious, teenage and warm. He sees very little of the walls, most of them adorned with posters of various bands and some other drawings. A few photographs in frames and a couple of hooks, holding mementos on them. There’s a TV in the corner of the room, on top of an entertainment center, a game paused on the screen. The music from it lulls quietly in the air between them.
Against the far wall, there’s a desk, surprisingly neat, with a few papers stacked on top, a calculator sprawled to the side with at least six broken pencils, and one mechanical that seems to be functioning properly, and an uncapped pen.
“You’re having trouble with math?” Mark tries, because Jack doesn’t seem thrilled about making conversation.
“I guess?” Jack doesn’t sound like he knows. “Listen, man. I’m not trying to be a jerk or anything, but my parents...they keep hiring new tutors. You’re like, the fourth one in two weeks. It’s crazy. I didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal. I’m pulling...a decently good C right now, I don’t see the issue.”
“Maybe they just want you to maintain honor roll,” Mark says softly, unsure. “Um. Do tutors keep leaving because they don’t like you, or your parents don’t?”
It’s a weird question to ask, but Mark’s trying to figure out which person he should endear himself to, especially since he’d like to keep this job. Not only because it’s going to pay well, but he’s a poor college student and he loves to teach people. There’s something so enjoyable about it for him, and this kills two birds with one stone.
“Me,” Jack says simply, offering him a wry smile. “They’re all a bunch of money grabbing whores, basically. My parents don’t have the best taste in people my age.”
Sighing, Jack collapses to the floor, sprawling his legs out before he picks up the controller again. He doesn’t unpause it yet, as though allowing Mark to soak in the words he’s just said.
“I’d like to teach you,” Mark tells him quietly. “Genuinely. But I understand if you don’t want me around. I can just go downstairs and tell Miss Juliana you’d rather not be taught by me.”
Jack gazes at him from over his shoulder, his eyes blank, before that half-smile returns, revealing a set of crooked teeth.
“Why don’t you sit down for a bit?” he pats the carpet next to him. “And I’ll decide after I beat this level.”
It seems like the right answer. Mark interprets Jack’s response as, you’ve got the job.
At sometime around four, Jack finally relents to Mark’s first lesson.
“We can go downstairs,” he says, gathering up his books from the floor. “There’ll be more space, and you can actually sit next to me.”
Without waiting for a response, Jack balances his books in his arms as he opens the door and leaves the room. Mark trots after him, wondering what this kid is all about.
He catches a glimpse of green rearing the corner when they get downstairs, in the opposite direction of Miss Juliana’s office. When Mark rounds the corner, he’s greeted by a large dining room, a table for six, at the very least.
Jack tosses his books down and plops himself down into a chair, glancing at Mark expectantly.
He takes a seat beside him. Jack flips through the book, opening to a page, notebook paper sticking out.
“I don’t get shit,” he proclaims, and it’s so sudden that Mark actually bursts out laughing.
It’s been a while since he’s laughed like this. Mark has been drowning in homework and social isolation since classes let out, and Wade’s gone back to Cincinnati for the summer whereas Bob hasn’t quite made the trip out to see him yet. Tyler has been busy with his job shadowing program, and Ro’s been busy with last minute summer assignments.
He wipes at his eyes to reveal Jack, staring at him in a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
Without saying anything, Mark peers over Jack’s books, skimming over the problems as the laughter in his throat bubbles down.
“Okay,” he breathes out, clearing his throat. “Sorry. Go ahead and show me what you’re doing right now. Maybe I can figure out where your teacher loses you.”
Jack rummages through a folder, pulling out sheets of notebook paper, all full of scrawl that makes little sense as Mark scans it. He follows Jack’s steps from beginning to where it abruptly ends, and somewhere in the middle, he randomly finds it.
“Here it is,” Mark says, running his finger over the graphite, causing it to smudge a bit. “Like, you’re carrying the wrong variables. I think you’re mixing up your steps here? Truthfully, I don’t know where to start, so I’m just going to reteach this all to you, okay?”
Reaching across him, Mark withdraws a clean sheet of paper, flipping through the text to find the problem. Grabbing a pencil, he sets up the problem, before turning to Jack.
“After setting up the problem--you started it out right--so continue on that, and then…”
He begins to scribble, and Jack leans a little closer to watch.
In between problems, he and Jack talk on and off about weird things.
It transitions between Jack explaining his poor ability at math but his excellent ability at English to Mark’s study of engineering at this big name university he’s in at on scholarship.
At around six, Mark checks his watch and realizes that he really should be getting home.
“I hope you don’t mind if I scoot now?” Mark eases into the last problem, as Jack’s scribbling in the answer. “I really gotta get home. My puppy’s probably missing me, and I’ve got dishes to clean and emails to answer for my university to make sure I’ve still got a job set up for working on campus this summer.”
Jack tilts his head at him. “You’re tutoring and working?”
“Yeah?” Mark asks. “I have an apartment really close to campus. My rent’s pretty cheap because my mom is friends with the landlord. And I usually work on campus over the summer to pay my rent. Tutoring was a side job I picked up just for a little extra change, I guess? Originally, I wasn’t going to, but my friend Danny, who’s a teacher assistant in the music department at school, suggested that since I get math so well, I should tutor. So I said sure, why not?”
He stands up, stretching his shoulders. Jack’s still looking at him funny, which Mark can’t suss out. But he doesn’t bother to ask, and instead inquires, “Same time tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Jack says. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Chica,” Mark grins, his heart immediately lifting at the thought of his puppy back at home.
Jack seems to be lost in thought as he exits the room.
“You’ll have to meet Gizmo sometime,” Mark catches Jack saying, before he’s entering the foyer, out of earshot.
Mark assumes that’s a pet owned by the family, but really, he can’t be entirely sure.
Upon entering the house the following morning, Arthur promptly directs him to the kitchen, which Mark is mildly intrigued to see.
It’s bolder than he’d expected--larger than he’s ever been in. Immediately, his brain starts rattling off all the recipes his mom has taught him, imagining how wonderful this kitchen would be smelling of something homemade. He wonders if anyone even uses this kitchen.
“You’re here early,” Jack comments, taking as swig from a glass of an amber liquid, which Mark presumes to be some sort of tea. He tilts his head at the butler behind him. “Thanks, Arthur.”
“Young master,” the man bows, before exiting the room.
Jack visibly scowls. Mark regards him with a curious expression.
“I hate it when he calls me that,” Jack mumbles. Raising his voice, he shouts, “I hate it when you call me that!”
There’s no reply, and Jack grumbles something under his breath that gives Mark the impression he’d expected that sort of response.
“Yeah, sorry if this is a bad time,” Mark murmurs. “I just needed to let you know that my schedule is going to be sort of...precise from here on out. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be working from about eight in the morning to four in the afternoon on campus. Sometimes it’ll vary, but that’s essentially my workload. I do have some summer classes, but that’s all online, so we don’t have to worry about that. I won’t be able to drop by here until at least four thirty.”
“Fucking yikes,” Jack says. “Every day?”
“Five days a week,” Mark confirms with a shrug. “It’s not so bad. Honestly, I like keeping busy. But I hope that works for you? I might be able to work something out if it’s doesn’t...”
Jack shakes his head. “No, that’s fine. I can swing that schedule. Whatever works for you and gets me a B is a pretty solid plan if you ask me. If you want, we can bump tutoring sessions to three days a week? It’ll give you a little breathing room, then. Did you wanna start now? Because I’ll be honest, I haven’t eaten yet and I don’t think I’m gonna be able to focus.”
“It’s almost noon,” Mark laughs. “You’re telling me you just woke up?”
“Don’t judge my life choices,” Jack waves his glass at him. “I suppose Mister Keep Busy has already eaten?”
“Full and already went for a morning run,” Mark quips back, grin widening. “I gotta maintain this hot bod somehow.”
Jack snorts, rummaging through the cabinets, presumably for something. “Okay, Narcissus. Whatever you say. So while I feed myself, can I get you anything?”
“Water’s good,” Mark replies, and sits down at the bar as Jack gestures to it.
In just a few minutes, Mark’s sipping on a glass of water while watching Jack make himself pancakes, heaping in scoops of chocolate chips that Mark vaguely wonders if he’s trying to put himself into a sugar coma to avoid doing math.
Jack slides in across from him moments later, a plate full of one single pancake covered in chocolate and syrup. A warm, fragrant sweetness overwhelms him, and as comforting as it is, it also makes him feel a little sick.
“I think I just contracted diabetes looking at that,” Mark snips, offering a small smile as he swallows down a gulp of water. “Seriously, you’re not sick eating that?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over how much I’m enjoying my life,” Jack sings in reply, and he gazes up at him through his lashes. “Is my mom paying you to fuss at me?”
Mark rolls his eyes. “No. I don’t think anyone could really properly do that job.”
He finds it weird, somehow, that he’s bantering this easily when he met him yesterday. Mark knows he should feel that weird disconnect between friends and “guy you’re technically working for” but it seems strangely absent in the air.
“You’re so sweet,” Jack mutters sarcastically, but the words are laced with something kind. He’s smiling.
They end up chattering back and forth, on and off, as Jack stuffs pancake into his mouth.
“So is it just you and your mom and your dad here?” Mark asks, thinking it can’t possibly be the case. Not with this big of a house and this many rooms.
“I have four older siblings,” Jack explains. “The closest to me in age is about, fuck, uh, five years older? I was kind of like a last-minute baby. They’re all moved out doing their own stuff. Though, maybe someday you’ll meet them. They come back to the house every so often to visit and get reacquainted.”
He has this weird little habit of talking while he’s chewing, and it’s kind of disgusting. Mark, as interesting as he finds Jack talking about his family, says as much about the food, and Jack makes it a point to spit on him.
Mark spits water back at him, and his surprised yelp is kind of endearing.
At sometime around one thirty, Jack sets the dishes into the sink, and announces, “Alright. I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Finally,” Mark grouses. “I’ve only been ready for the past hour.”
Jack shoots him a glare, and Mark snickers.
They enter the dining room area once again, the books from the night before still present, closed with papers sticking out in various directions. Jack plops down into his seat, flipping to his page, before starting on a problem.
Mark eases into the seat next to him, watching Jack’s fingers speed through the equation, and halfway through, Mark interrupts him.
“Ahh, ah, no,” he slips the pencil out of his hand, scooting the paper to where it’s in between them. “Okay. Look at this again. Doesn’t that seem silly?”
Jack gives him this blank stare, then he squints at the paper, before glancing back to him.
“No?” he says, though he sounds unsure. “It...don’t I have to solve it like this?”
“Back up,” Mark advises. “Check over your work, and do it again.”
Handing the pencil back, Jack leans back over it, and continues.
“Mark?” Jack snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Mark?”
Mark shakes his head. “Sorry. What’s up?”
“Are you okay, man?” Jack tilts his head. “You’ve been like this since getting here. Long night?”
“Yeah,” Mark mumbles. “Just couldn’t sleep. Then I had work, then I came and helped you, and then my best friend is back in Cincinnati right now so I ended up talking to him for a while over Skype. And then there was my own homework to take care of--not a lot, but I am taking some summer classes.”
Jack sticks out his tongue. “Sometimes I get the feeling you stretch yourself out too much. Don’t be afraid to cancel on me, okay?”
“You just wanna get out of this math homework,” Mark fires back, knowing it isn’t true, but he’s really not digging the “real” turn this conversation is taking. “Budge up, champ. We’ve got the entire rest of this textbook to finish. I’m going to make you a math god.”
“Good fucking luck,” Jack scowls. “I’ve made about three days worth of progress in about two weeks.”
It hasn’t felt like two weeks, now that Mark’s thinking about it. Between getting up at six thirty to not getting home until eight--because he always ends up talking to Jack longer than he means to--he’s exhausted. Then his homework just drains him, and sometimes he has to catch up on the lecture notes and videos his teacher posts virtually. The days he’s not working with Jack are still days that seemed to be filled with something. There’s just so much to do and Mark wishes he had about four more hours everyday.
“You’re not actually doing that bad,” Mark says, and he means it. “When it comes to math, you just work at a slower pace, and that’s fine. I’m awful at timed writings. I bet you’re good at them.”
“I was,” Jack grins, as though this is a connection he can get on board with. “I don’t do them anymore, but back then, I was bomb at it. So I guess I get your point.”
“Exactly,” Mark reminds him. Then points back at the paper. “Now, next problem. Try it again.”
Jack sighs, but hunches over, already beginning the first steps.
About five minutes later, Jack murmurs, “Hey, by the way. My mom wanted me to invite you to dinner tonight. Her and Dad wanted to talk to you.”
There’s something tense in Jack’s shoulders as he says this, and Mark, unable to catch himself, asks him, “Am I going to get fired tonight?”
Jack lets out a breathless laugh, and he looks up at him. His blue eyes hide something Mark can’t read.
“No,” he says, and this he seems certain of, at least. “Probably quite the opposite. I think they want to keep you forever.”
Jack laughs at his own joke, and Mark does too, but he can’t help but feel like Jack means something else.
Mark feels like he’s at a family dinner, where he’s meeting his boyfriend’s parents for the first time.
It’s horribly awkward.
“Please don’t look so scared,” Miss Juliana says, offering him that big, easy smile. “Vince and I have already agreed that we like the improvement we’re seeing in Jack, and how you two seem to be getting along.”
Jack’s chewing his food, and avoiding his gaze.
“We just wanted to take this opportunity to get to know you,” she goes on. “I know you’re still a student yourself? What do you want to do with your life?”
Yes, this definitely feels like a meet-and-greet with potential in-laws. Mark offers a half-hearted shrug.
“Well, I’m going into engineering,” Mark’s tapping his foot underneath the table. “I’m really interested in building computers too, I think? I like seeing how things fit together. So it seems like a good way to mix a passion with a potential future.”
Mr. McLoughlin hums in agreement. “Seems like a strong ambition. Tell me, though, surely you have some downtime?”
“Very little,” Mark admits, letting his gaze slide to Jack again. He’s still not looking at him. “But I like taking my dog for a walk when I can. And I like video games.”
“My children never did get too much into video games,” Miss Juliana sighs. “They liked some, and played them, but weren’t heavily invested into them. But then there’s Jack, who plays them almost nonstop.”
Mark’s getting the vibe of something gross in the air, and to keep himself from talking, he stuffs another piece of food into his mouth.
“Why don’t you tell him what kind of games you play?” his father prompts Jack, who makes no effort to so much as open his mouth. “Jack?”
“This is really good,” Jack hums, completely bypassing the comment. “Did you make this, Ma?”
Mark feels like he should excuse himself, but instead, he just clears his throat. All eyes fall to him.
“Um,” he mumbles. “I also like writing. Creative stuff. I used to do that in my free time, too.”
He hopes that somehow he can pave over this shitstorm of awkward, but it only seems to make it worse.
“That’s lovely,” Miss Juliana tells him. “Jack--”
Jack throws his fork down on the plate, echoing in the dining room.
He shoves back his chair. “Would you just stop it?”
Without offering any explanation, he exits the room and his footsteps stomping up the stairs chase him the entire way.
“Sean McLoughlin!” his mother calls after him, and she rises to her feet, but his father waves a hand.
“Let me talk to him,” Mr. McLoughlin murmurs, before following after him.
Mark rubs his neck, unsure of what to do with himself at this point. Miss Juliana gives him a soft, sympathetic smile.
“I’m sorry, Mark,” she sighs. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy. Here, why don’t you...come to my office. I’ll get your payment for these two weeks squared away.”
“Okay,” Mark really just wants to go home, but it’s probably rude to deny it at this point, especially since it seems like she’s compensating for Jack’s bad behavior.
He truthfully doesn’t feel like Jack was all that rude, but he doesn’t really know, and it’s not really his place to second guess it, anyway.
“Can we please take a break?” Jack whines. “My brain is gonna turn to mush at this rate.”
“If you have time to lean, you have time to clean,” Mark intones dryly. “Next chapter.”
“That doesn’t make any sense to this situation,” Jack snips back.
Mark presses his lips together, trying to hold back a laugh. “If you have time to complain, you have time to use your brain. Hop to it.”
“You’re a monster,” Jack whines again. “Come on. Let’s just take a short break, okay? We can go up to my room and play something.”
“This sounds like the start of a bad porno,” Mark points out. “What games do you have?”
“Anything you want if we’ll stop,” Jack tosses his pencil down. “Dude, I’ll suck your dick if we could take a ten minute break.”
Mark snorts, trying to maintain his stern tutor expression, but really, Jack’s just hilarious sometimes. In all honesty, they probably are due for a break right about now.
“If you’ll stop whining,” Mark sighs, under the guise of exasperation. “I suppose we can take a break. But I expect you to work way harder when we come back.”
Jack jumps out of his seat. “Not happening!”
With that, he bolts up the stairs, and Mark starts laughing in earnest.
They haven’t talked about that night at dinner--Jack hasn’t so much as hinted at it, but when Mark had returned the next evening for their lessons, he had been his normal, snarky self. It’s been about a week since then, and things have, for all intents and purposes, returned to a state of normal.
The summer burns with a vigorous intensity, and it’s showing considering that Jack likes to avoid pants whenever Mark’s around. At some point, his normal plaid boxers turned into these really elaborate sets, ones with flamingos and cats and even candy canes at some point.
Mark can’t find it within himself to shuck his own pants off, no matter how hot it is.
Sighing, he sprints up the stairs after him, finding the door to Jack’s room shut and, after trying the doorknob, locked.
“You can’t come in,” Jack’s voice is muffled through the door. “Unless you give me the secret password.”
“What are you, eight?” Mark crosses his arms, beating down the smile on his face.
The distinct sound of raspberries comes through the door.
Mark does it back. Jack’s voice erupts in laughter.
The door opens, and green pokes through the sliver. Mark gives the door a good shove, before jumping into the room.
“Fight me, bro!” Jack yelps, and Mark has never been one to back down from a challenge. He pops his knuckles, before lunging for him, swinging him around to land on the bed.
It groans underneath the pressure, but Jack’s laughing breathlessly. He presses a socked foot against Mark’s chest, and Mark gives him a warning look, trying to look intimidating as he squishes down his grin.
He kicks him, and Mark grabs his foot, yanking the sock off before slapping him with it.
“Don’t hit me with my own sock!” Jack shrieks, and Mark offers him a noncommittal shrug as he tosses it away.
“Don’t kick me,” he fires back. “And don’t challenge my authority as supreme king of fights. Now budge over. I wanna lay down.”
Jack scoots over and Mark plops down next to him, but before he can properly relax, Jack’s crawling on top of him, sitting on his chest.
“I win,” he announces, crossing his arms. Mark raises a brow. “I’m on top.”
“How long do you think you’re gonna keep that?” he inquires back, and Jack sticks his tongue out.
“Forever.”
Heaving out a large sigh, Mark pushes forward and scoops Jack up, dropping him on the ground. The latter catches himself, shifting on his feet to shove at him again, but Mark grabs his wrists, leaning in close.
“I win,” he hums, and when Jack narrows his eyes in further attempts to challenge him, he presses him back against the closet door.
Though, Jack doesn’t seem to be listening. It’s only now that Mark realizes how close they are, so close he can feel the warmth of his skin coming off in waves. If he leaned in a little closer he could...
Jack’s eyes snap to his suddenly, and Mark wonders where they’d been looking.
Clearing his throat, Mark lets him go, and Jack snaps his fingers a couple of times.
“I’ve gotta stress relieve a little bit,” he says, turning his attention to the television. “Do you feel like playing Mortal Combat? Or are you too old to know how?”
“I’m literally only one year older than you,” Mark explains. “And I know that I could pound your ass into the ground, thanks very much.”
Jack grins at him, teeth glimmering with bad intentions. He rummages around for a few moments in his closet before tossing him a controller.
“Prove it,” he challenges, and Mark settles on wiping that smirk right off his face.
They play way too late into the night. When Mark checks the clock again, it’s almost ten thirty and he drops his controller like it’s suddenly scalding hot.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he yanking himself to his feet, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “Fuck. Sorry, I--I have to go home now!”
“Christ,” Jack whispers, looking at the clock. “Hey, man, I’m so sorry. You can stay the night here if you need to--”
“My puppy!” Mark exclaims. “Chica’s gonna be so sad. I can’t stay. I gotta go home. I’m sorry. I’ll be here tomorrow. Or whenever. I don’t know. Sorry. Bye.”
Mark’s patting himself down as though he brought anything with him into the house, before he bolts down the stairs.
Jack calls to him from over the rail, “Be safe going home, okay? I’m serious, Mark! Don’t let me hear about you on the news tomorrow!”
He waves at him haphazardly over his shoulder before exiting the house, getting into his car, and slamming the door.
Mark cuddles with Chica profusely that night.
She doesn’t seem to be sad at all.
Somewhere in mid July, Mark gets a call from Miss Juliana, saying that Jack’s taken ill.
“I don’t know where he got it,” she tells him. “But he’s sick as a dog, and I don’t think he’ll be able to do much of anything today. I’m sorry this is so abrupt.”
“It’s fine,” Mark assures her. “Is he okay, though? Should I bring something?”
“You’re so sweet,” Miss Juliana sighs, and he can hear that big smile in her voice. “You don’t have to, not at all. But I’m sure he’d very much appreciate it if you did.”
Mark gets the feeling that Jack’s kind of lonely. He doesn’t know what’s given him the impression, but there’s just something about the way that he needs tutors and that he’s taking classes online and that he doesn’t seem to go out much that indicate it. Perhaps he’s wrong, but it’s the general vibe.
Perhaps that’s why he wants to be a friend so badly. Jack seems like he needs them. Mark knows the toil of not having friends--and it’s painful. It’s nearly suffocating.
But more than that, Jack is...just so kind. When Mark had first met him, he seemed like a spoiled brat, or at the very least, rude as hell, but as it turns out, he’s sweet, friendly, and all around wonderful. He’s funny and loud, and Mark finds that he really, really likes spending time with him.
“I’ve got a few things in mind,” Mark replies. “Do you mind if I use your kitchen?”
A trip to the supermarket later, Mark’s pulling up to the McLoughlin house. He unplugs his phone from the car as he shuts it off, stuffing it into his back pocket as he grabs his shopping bags from the passenger seat.
Upon arriving at the front door, he rings the doorbell with his elbow, and once allowed inside, he politely says hello to Arthur before kicking off his shoes. Mark makes a beeline for the kitchen, setting down his bags.
“Well, well,” Miss Juliana’s voice travels in as he’s trying to figure out where everything is. “This is quite a setup. Need help finding something?”
“Pots, silverware, bowls--all the normal stuff. I’m making one of my mom’s old recipes. When I moved out to live on my own, she made sure I had this huge ass cookbook full of cheap, easy to prepare, and good food,” Mark smiles sheepishly. “Soup usually does the trick for me when I’m sick. So I thought maybe it’d help Jack out a bit, even though it’s boiling outside.”
Miss Juliana is looking at him in an unreadable way. Mark finds that the McLoughlin family is full of weird looks he can’t read. She’s still smiling, though, so he guesses that’s good. “Bowls are above the sink, pots are below, and silverware is in the drawer closest to the fridge. I’ll leave you to it.”
She turns to leave. “Thank you, Mark. For everything.”
Before Mark can reply, she’s gone.
Thirty minutes later, Mark’s scrolling through his phone while he’s waiting for the soup to finish steeping. It’s just about ready to go, and he’s wondering how he’s going to get it upstairs without dropping it.
He ladles out some of the soup into a bowl, grabbing it with two of the oven mitts that he finds hanging off the side of the fridge. Sucking in a steadying breath, Mark makes his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs, praying that Jack’s door isn’t closed.
It isn’t. It’s cracked, but just barely, and Mark can hear the weird static of some television program or another playing, though he can’t quite discern what. Easing the door open, he announces, “Surprise!”
Jack screams.
The sound pierces his ears, and it takes all of Mark’s energy not to drop the bowl.
“Fucking Christ, Mark,” Jack wheezes, and god, he sounds hoarse. “You trying to kill me?”
“I think this soup says otherwise,” Mark replies, unable to hide his grin. “I even made it the alphabet kind, so we can solve word equations while you eat.”
“You did fucking not,” Jack looks incredulous.
Mark laughs, easing the door shut with his foot as he sets the soup down on the nightstand. Jack’s wrapped in a blanket, a tissue box almost empty at his side.
“You...made this for me?” he asks, his voice nearly a whisper. “Really?”
“It’s my mom’s old recipe, so you technically have her to thank,” Mark replies. “Your mom called and told me you were sick, and I dunno, I felt like I should give you a good fixer-upper. I’m pretty sure my mom is a magical good witch and she never told me, because this shit works faster than any medicine could.”
Jack’s gaze shifts to him, eyes unmoving for a few moments. Then he lets out a little laugh, and sniffs.
“Thank you, Mark,” he murmurs, reaching for the food. “I really appreciate it.”
“Careful,” Mark warns, handing him the mitts. “Put this in your lap and make sure you blow on it, otherwise you’re gonna be sick with a burnt tongue.”
Jack nods, setting the food in his lap, just as Mark advised. He blows on the first spoonful of it, putting it into his mouth, before swallowing it down.
“It’s...really good,” he admits, flashing him a smile. “I’m impressed.”
“Honestly,” Mark shakes his head. “Only you could get sick in the middle of fucking July, man. What the hell.”
Though his voice is shot, Jack’s laugh sounds so much prettier than it normally does. More pure. More alive. More resonating. It causes Mark to start laughing too, until Jack starts coughing in the middle of it, and Mark reaches forward to pat him on the back.
“You should stay here,” Jack rasps out. “Watch some TV with me. It’ll be like a sleepover.”
“In the middle of the day,” Mark snickers. “Sleepover in the middle of the day.”
“I take it back,” Jack eats another spoonful of soup. “Get out.”
Mark plops himself down in front of the bed, leaning back against the frame as he calls, “So! What are we watching?”
Jack’s only answer is to turn the volume up on the episode of Friends.
He stays well into the evening, and Jack plays some of his favorite music for him.
“Not the metal stuff,” Jack tells him. “The softer stuff. The stuff I think you’ll like.”
And Mark does.
“What’re you working on?”
“Something too complex for your Irish brain to handle.”
Jack shoves him. Hard. “Fuck off. Just because I told you my Irish heritage doesn’t mean you can use it against me.”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Mark replies. “Your accent is off the charts. It was only a matter of getting it confirmed.”
Mark continues typing away on his laptop, trying to ignore Jack’s watchful gaze. This paper is a bitch and he wants no part in it. Unfortunately, a good portion of his grade depends on it.
He and Jack have toned down the official tutoring sessions to twice a week, but somewhere in the middle, they just hang out. Mark will come over and work on his own homework while Jack chatters away, sometimes about his life, and sometimes asking about Mark’s.
As it turns out, Jack’s got four siblings all moved out. Gizmo is in fact the family dog, but he’s currently at residence with the oldest sister, Amelia. Jack is the youngest by far, but he’s the closest with the youngest sister, Emma.
Mark tells him about Tom, his older brother, and how he’s got this fancy teaching job at a university in Cincinnati.
Talking like this is perhaps one of Mark’s favorite pass times over the summer. Mark tells him about Tyler and Ro and Wade--all of his friends that he’s still kept in touch with despite all of them moving in drastically different directions.
When the conversation fizzles out in favor of Mark grinding through his paper, Jack pours over his obscure math work again, Miss Juliana comes in.
“Mark, is there anything pressing you have to do tonight?” she asks, and Mark looks up at her.
He stares awkwardly at his essay for a few more minutes, before settling on, “Nothing that can’t be pushed back. It’s the weekend after all. Why?”
“Unexpectedly, one of our family friends is flying into town this evening, so Vince and I are going out to dinner with her. We’ve got two tickets for the carnival tonight, so maybe you and Jack could go?”
Jack doesn’t even look up from his paper, even as Mark turns to him. “Uh. Sure. I guess? I mean, I’m not much for…”
“We just don’t want these to go to waste,” Miss Juliana goes on. “But if you really don’t want to, I’m sure we can find someone to give them to.”
Jack’s pencil breaks as Mark’s watching him, and he calmly reaches across the table and sharpens it.
“Do you not want to go, Jack?” he prompts him. “We can just stay home.”
“Whatever’s fine,” he says, much too quickly. “I don’t care. Your call.”
Mark hates it when things are his call. He opens his mouth to persuade Jack to make the call, when Miss Juliana interrupts, “Why don’t you two go? It’s summer. I don’t like seeing two young people wasting away with all of their homework. Enjoy yourselves.”
It doesn’t look like Jack’s paying attention at all, so he answers, “Okay. Sure. We can take my car, I guess. Okay, Jack?”
“Okay,” he mumbles. He seems really intent on that math now. “When’s it start?”
“You should probably go now,” Miss Juliana withdraws the tickets from her purse, handing them to Mark. “Here. It’s down near Main Street. You’ll know it when you see it. I have to head out, but you two have fun tonight!”
The clack of her heels echo behind her, and Mark leans on the table, gazing at Jack with curious eyes.
Mark presses his lips into a thin line. He glances over at him, after a beat.
“We don’t have to go,” he says. “I’m, uh, getting the feeling you really don’t want to spend any time with me outside of tutoring.”
Jack drops his pencil. “Really? That’s the impression I’ve been giving you? Playing video games with you, and inviting you to watch TV and eat dinner with me, and I don’t want to hang out with you?”
“You just really don’t seem thrilled about this carnival thing,” Mark replies breezily. “We don’t have to go,” he repeats.
Jack’s shoulders slump. “No, no. I just...ugh. We should. Go, I mean. Ma bought the tickets after all. Might as well use them. I just have to put on pants.”
“Bummer,” Mark snickers. “I guess I’ll wait for you in the car?”
“Sure,” and with that, Jack’s exiting the room and bounding up the stairs.
Twenty minutes later, Mark’s considering leaving without him when Jack finally appears at the passenger door. He enters, sitting down and buckling his seatbelt.
“I thought you were gonna put on pants,” Mark complains. “You changed your whole fucking wardrobe. You look like a snob now.”
“Excuse the fuck outta you,” Jack spits back. “I always look like a snob.”
They both stare at each other for a few moments, their eyes locked in an intense gaze, before they burst out laughing.
“You make me feel underdressed,” Mark sighs, shifting the car into reverse, pulling out of the driveway. “You always gotta one up me?”
“I look like a casual teenage boy going on an adventure to the supermarket,” Jack replies. “You’re exaggerating.”
But he does. Look good. He’s got this punkish look to him, similar to his outfit from the first day they met. Though the ripped jeans are blue this time, with a bunch of electric blue, green, and orange bracelets around his left wrist, a black watch on his right. He’s wearing this baseball tee, navy blue sleeves that come to his elbows, with a white background, highlighting the words in 8-bit text: you’re gonna have a bad time.
“Are you left handed?” Mark inquires, just now realizing Jack’s wearing his watch on the opposite hand that Mark does. “And more importantly, how much did that watch cost? It looks like it’s more expensive than my entire apartment.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Jack comments. “No, I just tend to wear it on my dominant hand, that’s all. And it was a gift. I’m not sure how much it cost. Probably too much. I don’t like it when people spend money on me.”
His voice darkens a bit at this, and so Mark offers him a noncommittal shrug, attempting to bypass it. “Not that weird. I’ve met a lot of people who do that.”
Jack smiles, and when he stops at a red light, Mark notices the way that his eyes crinkle at the corners, and somehow, that’s utterly endearing.
“Dude,” Jack hisses, latching onto his elbow. “Look at that fuckin’ thing. It’s crazy looking.”
Jack’s pointing directly at a giant eyeball hanging from one of the stalls, all green with a blue iris. It’s honestly freaky to Mark, and he does not want to look at it for any longer than he has to.
“I like it,” Jack announces, and of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? “Dude, I would love to have that. I’m not gonna waste the money on it, though. It’s probably impossible.”
“Good point,” Mark replies. “Come on. I really, really want to ride that, and you’re coming with.”
Jack whines, something about not liking roller coasters, but it’s a tiny one and he can just suck it up.
An hour and a half later, it’s completely dark out, but the carnival is alight with games, laughter, and music. They’ve migrated from the stands outside to the little arcade section inside, where Jack is rather angrily playing air hockey with someone.
“Why don’t you go and suck all my--!” Jack shouts, but he’s laughing, cutting whatever derogatory phrase he was going to utter off.
While watching him laugh, his body language so erratic in a way he’s never seen, he seems so much more in his element. With his voice carrying across the crowds of other people, with his gestures all encompassing, it just...suits him.
An idea strikes Mark rather suddenly. Glancing down at his watch, he pats his pocket for his wallet, before slipping away.
He surveys the carnival grounds for a moment before spotting the giant green eye, approaching the counter. Sliding the man running the booth a couple of bills, he’s given three rings. Rules are obvious--loop it around one of the bottle necks.
These games are nearly impossible for Mark. He thinks maybe he’s done it once in his entire life, and he’s been to a lot of carnivals. A sudden pressure builds inside his chest--he doesn’t know why this is so important to him. But with a flick of his wrist, he tosses one of the loops.
No go. He picks up the second, tossing it.
Not that one either. At this point, Mark’s pretty sure he’s blown his chance at it, but deciding to give it one last go, he throws it.
It clatters off. He sighs.
Something about the thought of Jack and his luminescent smile makes him pull out another three dollars to try again.
“There you are. I was--” Jack’s saying, but whatever he was going to say next is swallowed by a mute surprise.
He takes the giant stuffed eyeball gingerly. Mark rubs at his neck.
“Dude,” Jack breathes, giving it a experimental squeeze. “Dude. Holy shit.”
“I hope you like it,” is Mark’s only answer, and there’s this weird feeling in his chest, spreading down to his stomach. It feels like nerves.
But then Jack smiles, softer than his normal smiles. He tucks it underneath his arm, and he can barely see his teeth glimmering beneath his lips.
“I love it,” he murmurs, and it’s hard to hear him against the crowd of people. But Mark reads his lips, and he nods when Jack says, “Thank you.”
“Will you ride the ferris wheel with me, then?” Mark asks, shifting gears. “I used to go to carnivals a lot with my brother, back when lived in Cincinnati. It was tradition for us to ride the ferris wheel before we left, so we could see everything one last time.”
Jack pauses, his expression uncertain, before uttering out a quiet, “Sure. Okay.”
A weird thought rumbles in Mark’s mind, indistinguishable, but without thinking, he offers his arm out. Jack looks really startled by the gesture, regarding him with large, uncertain eyes, before he slowly loops arms with him.
He’s warm and solid, and Mark finds that he rather likes it when Jack’s this close to him.
They stay like this until they get to the ferris wheel, and all the way until they get into the cart.
It’s halfway up the ferris wheel when Jack’s breathing gets a little funny.
“I don’t like heights,” he murmurs, and shit, shit, that explains his hesitance.
“Oh my god,” Mark reaches across, pressing his hands down on Jack’s shoulders. “Dude, why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“You looked like you really wanted it,” Jack replies. “Sorry. It’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’m good. I’m good. I’ll get through this.”
His eyes drift towards the open window of the cart, and Mark’s hold on him tightens.
“Hey, come on,” Mark says. “Don’t look there. Look at me. Focus on me, okay? Look at me. I’m so goddamn attractive. Who wouldn’t want to look at me?”
Jack actually starts laughing, and thank god. Blue meets brown, as Jack wheezes out, “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” he laughs. He doesn’t move his hands from Jack’s shoulders. “My eyes are melted chocolate. It’s gorgeous. Everyone who thinks brown eyes are boring have never met me.”
“I love brown eyes,” Jack admits, closing his eyes. “They’re so pretty. Like sunlight is caught in them, all the time.”
“Eyes on me, string bean,” Mark teases.
An ungraceful snort escapes Jack. “Really?”
“You’re so fucking tiny,” he reminds him. “And your hair is green. It’s a fitting name.”
“Not all of us can have plus ten biceps.”
The cart wobbles. Jack stills like a deer caught in headlights. Mark moves his hands to Jack’s cheeks, holding his face.
“On me,” he repeats, lowering his voice. “We’re almost at the bottom. Eyes on me. What are you going to name that dumb eyeball?”
“Sam,” Jack croaks out. He has this faraway stare. “Uh. I’ve always liked that name.”
Mark doesn’t really know how to answer, so he just keeps touching him, as though somehow that alone will ground him to reality. It seems to be working, and when the cart finally clatters to a halt, Jack lets out a soft breath.
They pile out, and Jack decides he wants to head home, so Mark takes him.
When Mark pulls up in the driveway, he says, “I should probably get home.”
“That’s fine,” Jack replies. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Mark steps out of the car as Jack does, and he follows him up to the doorstep before falling under the light of the front door. He’s holding Sam tightly, and his face is wiped blank again, an unreadable expression that frustrates Mark, because he’s always so good at reading people, but he can’t read Jack.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Mark says, confirming his earlier question. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight,” Jack’s voice is a little off, but he holds Mark’s eyes in a way he never really has before.
Mark’s body shifts, and something in his mind is whispering: kiss him, kiss him, kiss him and he can’t shove it down. It seems like the right thing to do. But more than that, it seems like something he wants to do.
He leans forward, and Jack squeaks out, “Night!”
The door opens and slams in his face, and Jack is gone.
July bleeds into August like a painful itch. Annoying, but not enough to really call a problem.
Jack never breathes a word of that night again. Mark doesn’t either. Some things, he feels, are better left buried deep.
Except Mark doesn’t want it to be.
In some ways, he’s always been acutely aware of his attraction to Jack. Mark’s always been bisexual--he’s mostly dated girls in the past, but there have been instances of boys catching his eye. Jack’s one of the very few.
He likes Jack. He’s funny, charismatic, and sweet. He’s got an endless reserve of energy, pushing it all at him at once. It’s comforting, somehow.
“I gotta pee,” Jack announces to him during one session. They’ve decided to tutor in Jack’s room, because he wanted to listen to music and didn’t feel like moving his stuff downstairs.
He leaves to head to the bathroom, and Mark, letting his curiosity fester, explores the room a bit.
It hasn’t changed in the last few months. But something Mark notices that he hadn’t before. A photograph in particular.
Jack is obviously pictured--but he appears younger than now. Perhaps two or three years. He’s got his arm around someone else, brown hair with sharp eyes. He doesn’t recognize him. But the two look really comfortable together--joyous, even. There’s a semblance of innocence in Jack’s eyes that he seems to lack now.
“What are you doing?” Jack hisses, so vehemently that it scares him.
“I just was looking,” Mark stammers. “Uh. You two look really happy. Boyfriend?”
Jack’s eyes harden. “Best friend. That’s...Robin.”
The name is small, bitter on his tongue. Mark doesn’t get to prompt him further, because Jack goes into shutdown after the declaration, where he refuses to even acknowledge Mark outside of homework.
They sit in silence for the last hour Mark is there.
He cancels only once on Jack during the summer, and it’s close to classes starting up for him again.
“I’m really sorry,” he tells Miss Juliana on the phone. “There’s just a lot going on right now. I’ll probably cancel for this whole week, if that’s okay? I just gotta get everything situated. I’m starting classes again soon, so my schedule for tutoring will probably change.”
“We’ll work it out,” she assures him. “Thank you for calling, Mark. I’ll let Jack know.”
And that’s that. Mark spends the next two and a half days registering for classes, skyping with Wade on and off, and taking Chica for at least four walks a day so he can clear his own head.
He’s got his laptop on the coffee table with Chica’s head in his lap when the doorbell to his apartment rings. Mark contemplates not answering it, because the only people who visit him these days are random salespeople, and he’s really not in the mood.
But the ringing continues, and Chica moves her head as Mark stands and goes to the door.
When he opens it, Jack’s standing there, his hair frazzled and his eyes all over the place. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.
“You’re not avoiding me, are you?” he blurts out, and the words sound too big for his mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want--I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Um,” Mark begins. There’s no real way to say this without embarrassing the hell out of him--nothing short of lying, that is. “I’m. Making sure all of my classes are in order. I go back in about a week. It’s, uh, got nothing to do with you.”
Jack’s pale skin colors drastically. He clears his throat, immediately dropping his gaze to the floor, as he fumbles out, “Well. Sorry to bother you. I guess I’ll--I’ll uh. Go. Bye.”
He starts to turn himself around, but Mark grabs him by the wrist. “You, um. You came all the way out. Won’t you at least have a drink with me?”
“Do you like me?” Jack’s voice cracks, and holy shit, what a question.
He lets go, and Jack turns back to him. Mark inhales, deciding, “I think I need a drink.”
Twenty minutes later, Mark has down about three shots of rum, and Jack’s sitting on his carpet so awkwardly that Chica is taking pity on him. She keeps booping her nose into him, as though to put him at ease and “push” the anxiety out of him.
“This is Chica,” Mark elaborates, as if that’s not already obvious. “Light of my life. Reason I get up in the morning. Saving grace. A good puppo.”
“She’s pretty,” Jack croaks out. “What a good girl.”
“And this is my apartment,” Mark gestures. “Not as grand as your home, I know. But it’s home to me.”
“It’s lovely,” Jack answers. “I like it.”
Silence. Mark offers him the bottle, but Jack declines it. He’s so high strung that Mark wonders if yelling at him will snap him out of it. But he really doesn’t want to do that.
“This has never been about me being your tutor, has it?” Mark finally asks, because now that he’s got a little liquid courage in him, he could give less than two fucks about boundaries. It’s time to start asking the big questions, starting and ending with why Jack is so wishy washy with his emotions. Why he won’t look at him sometimes. Why he shies away. “Or your family being stupid fucking rich.”
“It’s part of it,” Jack assures. “In the beginning, yes. It was. I got over that bit in record time, though.”
Something dawns on him, like a train barreling into him, and Mark takes another swig of rum, shaking his head as he rumbles out, “You don’t need tutoring, do you?”
Because he’s never really needed it. He’s made mistakes in the past, screwed up steps on long equations, but he learns so quickly. They’re all easily fixable mistakes. After Mark had fixed his tiny errors, Jack breezes through everything else.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Jack’s chewing on his lower lip. “My grades were shit. But that wasn’t because I was awful at math. I mean, I’m not good at it and I don’t like it. But I...I can teach it to myself pretty well. YouTube also helps.”
“So I’ve wasted my summer for nothing,” Mark states. “Is that it?”
“It’s been nice getting help,” Jack’s rubbing his eyes. “Sometimes it’s easier when someone is there to actually ask questions.”
Jack’s been playing him this whole time. Pretending like he doesn’t know anything. Mark starts laughing. Something ugly is twisting inside of him as he does. How could he have been so stupid? The carnival, all the video games--he’d been humoring him and his petty affections. How pathetic.
“I think you should leave,” Mark says, finally. “You can tell your mom I probably won’t be coming by anymore. It’s evident to me that you don’t need it, and I’m not in the alleyway to take money when I didn’t really earn it.”
“I don’t want to stop seeing you,” Jack murmurs. “You never answered my question.”
Do you like me?
“I don’t know,” is his answer. Mark is suddenly very tired. “I don’t like being lied to. I don’t like being played. And I certainly don’t like being made a fool of.”
“I--”
“I think you should leave,” Mark says, more firmly this time. He would like to be alone, now.
Jack rises to his feet. He looks so small now. So upset. But that writhing anger in his stomach is boiling, and he wants Jack gone before he lets it out.
“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers, as he heads to the door. “I wish it didn’t happen this way.”
“Me too,” Mark replies, and the door closes.
He’s alone, and Mark throws his glass against the wall.
[You have one new voice message. To listen to your messages, press 1.]
[First voice message:]
“...I can’t tell you this in person. I know it’s been a while since we talked. I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to play you or anything. I didn’t mean to deceive you. I was just afraid. Because by the time I realized that you were different than all of the other tutors, I knew that telling you would ruin anything. And I...I valued you more than that. My mom and dad were...you see, it starts with...he...Robin. It starts with Robin. He was one of my closest friends. I haven’t talked to him in a little over a year now. But I...I was in love with him.”
There’s breathing for a few seconds, choked and somber.
“And he didn’t feel the same. He wasn’t angry with me. Though, I was upset for a long time. In all honesty, he stopped talking to me. I haven’t heard from him since. That was...two years ago. My parents orchestrated this because they wanted me to get over it. Pushing people my way. No one really clicked with me, though. Until you came along. But by then, I was so tired of my parents meddling that I didn’t want to go through the trouble of rejecting you. I was hoping to drive you away. But you were so...great. Amazing. I became friends with you. And then I...you know the rest. I didn’t mean for that to happen. I wish...I could’ve met you another way. You won’t answer my calls, and I know why. I truly am sorry for not telling you sooner. None of that was fake, Mark. Everything I--everything we were...it was true. I’m sorry. But could we--could we...maybe still be friends? I want that, Mark. No more lying. I want to be friends. Please, call me back.”
[End of message. To listen to this message again, press 1. To save this message, press 3. To erase this message, press 7.]
[Message saved. You have no new voice messages.]
“Maybe you should talk to him again,” Tyler suggests.
“Or I could not do that,” Mark replies. “And continue my merry existence.”
“Merry my ass,” Tyler snips. “You’ve been miserable since you listened to that voicemail you have saved, that you haven’t let me hear.”
“None of your business,” Mark comments dryly. “Tyler, move. I have laundry to finish.”
His friend moves to the side, as Mark plops down the hamper half full of laundry. He opens the lid of the washing machine, piling some clothes inside of it. Grabbing the bottle of detergent, he pours some in.
Jack. It’s been weeks since he’s spoken to him. It’s been easier to not think about him now that classes are in full swing again. He feels surprisingly numb now that the name has resurfaced in his memory.
Mark had been expecting to feel angry. Or hurt. Or betrayed. But he feels very little of anything.
“Dude,” Tyler jolts him out of his thoughts. “I think that’s enough detergent.”
“Fuck,” Mark caps the bottle, staring down into the machine. It’s almost entirely blue. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Tyler gives him that look, that one that says he’s being a fucking idiot, and Mark doesn’t care that he’s usually right.
“Okay, so he lied to you,” Tyler goes on. “Or his parents did and he just went along with it. I think there’s more to the story than you’re letting him explain. And you really seemed to like him, Mark.”
“He was cute,” Mark admits. “And funny. But there are a lot of cute and funny people in the world. I will find another, and they won’t lie to me, and they won’t make me look like a goddamn idiot.”
“So this is about your wounded pride,” Tyler crosses his arms. “I’m not telling you to forgive him. Because I know that he hurt you and that it was unfair, and he should have to make it up to you if you ever decide you want to forgive him. I’m just saying you should let him explain himself in person and make a decision from there.”
Mark slams the lid down on the washing machine. “You weren’t there. You aren’t me. You don’t know how humiliating it felt.”
“No,” Tyler agrees, his voice calm. “I wasn’t there. I’m not you. And that’s exactly why I know how to look at this situation objectively. Talk to him.”
Mark sighs, and he’s really exhausted with this whole thing now. He just wanted to do his laundry in peace.
“I’ll think about it,” he concedes, and Tyler gives him that fucking smile like he’s won.
He’s just getting back from taking Chica on a walk when he sees Jack outside his door, legs jiggling with anticipation.
They lock eyes, and Mark’s not entirely sure he knows what to say. Chica’s sniffing in his general direction.
“Hi,” Mark settles on, finally. “Been waiting long?”
“Hi,” Jack replies. “No. Only a couple of minutes.”
Mark suspects the answer would be the same no matter if he’d been waiting long or not, but he’s not in any mood to press for further answers. Mark withdraws his key and unlocks his door, opening it and lets Chica in first.
He unhooks the leash from her, and she trots into the kitchen, presumably to get some water, and Mark waves for Jack to come inside.
“Do you want tea?” Mark asks, and Jack looks really surprised by the offer. “Look, I’ve had a lot of time to cool off. And my mother didn’t raise me in a barn. I know how to be polite.”
“I know you do,” Jack amends. “Sorry. I guess…”
“You were expecting me to shout?” Mark smiles at that. “I don’t like to do that. An ex of mine shouted at me a lot. It never felt good, and it doesn’t solve anything. It’s just humiliating.”
Jack says nothing to that. Mark moves into the kitchen to start some tea.
It’s beginning to brew when Jack finally murmurs, “I’m sorry.”
“I got that,” Mark says easily. “Why did you lie?”
He’s staring down at the floor. Mark turns to the stove. “My mom once told me that if someone can’t look you in the eye when apologizing, they’re not really sorry. Because your eyes hold all of your secrets within them.”
And then he raises his eyes, and Mark looks back. He holds it. “I’m sorry.”
“I believe you,” Mark takes the tea off the eye. He doesn’t really feel like drinking it anymore, and Jack doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood, either.
Scooting by him, Mark heads back into the living room, where he promptly sits on the floor. Chica comes to sit next to him, and Jack awkwardly stands in the doorway. He gestures to the floor.
“Sit,” Mark mumbles. “And tell me everything.”
Jack doesn’t hesitate as he eases himself down, and explains.
Some time passes--Mark’s not sure how long--but they end up just laying there, heads nearly touching, as Jack recounts the experience through his point of view.
“I don’t expect you to really forgive me,” Jack’s saying. “I mean, it was pretty shitty. Especially when I...I kinda knew.”
“What?” Mark asks. “That I was sweet on you?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” he begins softly. “It wasn’t...isn’t...unrequited. But I had been...unsure about my own feelings. After Robin, I wasn’t sure I was ready to tackle the whole relationship thing again. I wasn’t sure of my own feelings. If I was just...using you as a way of getting over it. Putting you in the void that Robin had left blank.”
Mark closes his eyes. “Are you sure now?”
Jack’s quiet for a long stretch. Then, his voice meek and low, “Yeah. I know now.”
Keeping his eyes closed, Mark’s hand finds Jack’s at his side. He taps it once for permission, then, when Jack loosens, Mark intertwines their fingers.
“We’ll figure something out,” he says, and Mark’s not entirely sure if it’s for himself or for Jack. “Just don’t lie to me anymore, okay?”
Jack hums out a sound that may be approval, and Mark chooses to take it as such. There’s something heavy in the air, now, both sticky and soothing all at once. This whole situation has way too much drama for Mark’s palate to handle.
“Sometimes I think back on the night you almost kissed me,” Jack murmurs, the words leaving him and dispersing into the air. Less to him, more to the atmosphere around them. “And sometimes I wish I’d let you.”
“Would you let me now?” Mark rumbles, and Jack’s grip on him tightens.
“Would you want to?” Jack fires back.
Then, in a swift movement, he’s pulling himself into a sitting position. Jack’s staring up at him with those wide blue eyes, patient, cautious, and so Mark mumbles, “Possibly,” before leaning down to kiss him.
When their lips connect, it’s like static, melding into something soft, gentle, and warm. It lasts but a few seconds, but somehow it seems like an eternity and a day.
“That’s for the time in your bedroom,” Mark murmurs. The weight of those words on his tongue surprise him, but he means them nonetheless. Jack is good at making him believe things he hadn’t known about up until this point. “And this one will be for the night at the door.”
Jack rises to meet him, then, as they kiss again, and again, and again.