Marcus Caravahlo (_caravahlo_) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-03-21 11:09:00 |
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Everything had gone surprisingly well with Bryant at the Key. Though the bar owner’s offer of drinks on the house did test any resolve Marcus had to stay relatively sober. He managed not to get too drunk, but by the time they left, he was certainly too buzzed to attempt navigating a drive back to the funeral home. Certainly not when so many other people were convincing themselves they weren’t too inebriated to drive out of that same parking lot. He didn’t feel comfortable letting the mortician try driving home, either.
So Marcus suggested that they walk to his place, instead. It wasn’t far.
He didn’t mention the temptation to pull Bryant into the alley next to the Brass Key, to shove the older man against an ice-cold wall and kiss him breathless in the shadows. Suck his dick right there just for having shown up, for flirting, for buying a fucking pair of jeans... But it was still January, so the cold was actually somewhat oppressive, and there were still too many potential witnesses milling about. Besides, that alley was for the likes of Avery Weston. Someone who got off on quick, dirty encounters and rough treatment. Bryant wasn’t wired the same way, and deserved better.
The duplex wasn’t exactly impressive, but it was warm. It had been an important step up from an apartment; only having to share a living room and kitchen wall, rather than having people live around, above, and beneath him. Privacy was an important luxury to him, but it was also just a matter of practicality. Marcus was a day-sleeper. Most people were not. He didn’t want to be the asshole who complained because most people were awake and running around at noon, nor did he care to get noise complaints because his footsteps were too loud at four in the morning, or he’d happened to turn on music. The old woman who occupied the other half of the duplex wasn’t much of a busybody or a complainer. Being hard of hearing, she didn’t care what music he played, or at what levels he chose to play it. In exchange for her being a hands-off, quiet neighbor, Marcus took care of some bullshit maintenance work and upkeep for her. Hauling out four trash and recycling bins each week instead of two really wasn’t that big of a deal.
It wasn’t neighborly judgment that had kept Marcus from having people over, however. There was only the one neighbor, and if she even noticed him bringing in guests, she likely wouldn’t have cared. Marcus didn’t let people into his place for his own reasons. He’d always preferred other people’s homes to his own. Hell, he preferred public places - bars, hotels, anything - to his own home, at least when it came to socializing.
It was partly due to Sophia. Contrary to the myth he chose to perpetuate, it had actually been all too easy to allow the beautiful Ms. D’Andrea to invade his lifestyle. Shortly after moving in, she’d been like a chaotic storm, mingling their belongings and fashioning a cohesive home out of their joint possessions. There’d been a frustrating insanity to her method. There’d been no organization to the process, but it had been thorough. Making the inevitable separation that much more difficult. It hadn’t been one cohesive tumor that needed to be excised from the body of his house. The cancer had spread to every system. When she left, taking her chaos with her, Marcus had felt gutted. He hadn’t expected that sense of loss, and he’d reacted rather poorly to it, trying to hit a reset back to his 20-year-old self. The pre-Sophia time.
His house was spartan in a lot of ways not because he couldn’t afford better things now, but because there wasn’t any reason to if it was just him in it. There weren’t any decorations or pictures on the walls, though there were holes to indicate that there had been at one time. She’d put up the pictures, and she’d subsequently taken them down. Marcus never replaced them with anything. Most of the furniture was IKEA fare; cheap, painted pressed wood structures that had been cobbled together in an afternoon. He had a small, black entertainment center and a brown fabric couch in the living room. The entertainment center didn’t match either of the bookcases near the the window, though they were twins, themselves. Between the two of them, they easily housed every book and movie that Marcus actually owned. The carpet and blinds were bog standard for a rental, beige and white respectively.
There was a beat up, folding card table that was set up in the dining area, with several flimsy wooden chairs around it. Chairs tended to be sold in sets, so Marcus did own four of them. One was inexplicably positioned in the living room, however, in front of the couch. Possibly to be used as a makeshift footrest or tray table. Something to set a beer on while he watched TV, since he didn’t own a coffee table. Although it had initially been set up for dining, the card table seemed mostly to be a dumping ground for mail he had every intention of sorting, someday.
There was more life in the actual kitchen than in either of those rooms. He actually used that often. On the fridge, there were framed, magnetic pictures of whole families and individual children, all of whom bore a striking resemblance to one another, their smiles adding a certain cheer to the room. Marcus kept a very clean, very organized kitchen, but it was also clearly loved. Hand towels arranged just so, fully stocked cabinets, a beautiful block of knives, and a wall hook next to the pantry where a yellow-and-white striped apron hung, bearing the inevitable faint stains of frequent use. There were even a few basil plants thriving in the kitchen window. Here, nothing was phoned in, which helped negate some of the dreariness from the rest of the house.
The bathroom, laundry room, and sole bedroom were located down a hallway. The bathroom itself was opposite a linen closet, which was half-full of actual linens and mostly held cleaning supplies. A single man didn’t need to own more than a couple sets of sheets and towels, but he did tend to keep a healthy stock of bleach and detergent on hand. Hospital work got messy. The spartan aesthetic that had somehow missed the kitchen also did not extend to the bathroom. As appearance conscious as he was, Marcus actually kept a lot of products on hand. This was another area of his life that wasn’t phoned in or skimped on. The sink area was populated by an electric toothbrush, a bottle of mouthwash, dental floss, face cleanser, astringent, shaving lotion, moisturizer, cologne, sunblock, and a leave-in smoothing cream for his hair. The shower housed his comb, body wash, exfoliant, shampoo, a regular conditioner, and a once-a-month deep conditioning treatment. The cluttered containers and combined smells of the products were a testament to his vanity, all visibly apparent without ever having to so much as venture into his medicine cabinet or a drawer. Those were also also far from empty. Marcus kept a lot of first aid supplies on hand, not to mention hair ties. The cabinet beneath the bathroom sink was also storage for a rather staggering supply of condoms.
Sometimes it was prudent to just buy in bulk.
Marcus wordlessly opened the front door to let Bryant inside, and then closed and locked it behind them. Rather than give a directed tour, he grabbed the other man’s arm and pulled him close enough to kiss him in the drab living room. He offered no warning and gave no choice in the matter, forcing the issue as much as he dared to. It was partly a test, to see if the older man would allow it, might kiss back... Mostly, he kissed Bryant because he’d been wanting to all night. All week. For fucking months.
There was passion in the kiss, but it didn’t turn into a pressuring shove towards the back of the house. After he’d kissed Bryant, Marcus peeled off and went into the kitchen, leaving the mortician to his own devices. Bryant could follow him, or explore, or bolt as he liked. Marcus badly wanted him to stay, but knew better than to demand it.
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Feeling a delightful sort of floatiness from the alcohol -- he wasn’t dizzy, exactly, not really -- Bryant readily accepted Marcus’ suggestion to walk to his place, something that was done in a placid sort of silence. He’d pulled his gloves on and buttoned his coat up and discretely made sure his steps were of the steady, stable sort. Bryant wasn’t drunk but he was certainly a lot less... exacting... than he normally was. British reserve was more of a sieve than a shield at present. The cold air was bracing, clearing out cobwebs but leaving behind wisps of music, more sturdy strings tied to bits of conversation and behavior. He’d tried hard to show Marcus that he wasn’t scurrying off and away from him, that he wanted Marcus in his life, that Bryant wanted to be a part of his in return. True, Bryant didn’t know details of what he wanted, particularly concerning anything physical, but he wasn’t quite as gobsmacked about all of it the way he’d been at Christmas. Max had been a nice fellow and Bryant felt for the first time in a long time that he hadn’t made a disastrous first impression. Bryant hadn’t embarrassed Marcus in front of his friend.
So it’d gone well. He’d enjoyed Marcus’ company and it had gone well. With this cheering thought bobbing at the top of his fizzy consciousness, Bryant walked with Marcus, thanked him when the younger man bid him enter into the living room, was about to make some observation or other about the space -- later, he’d never remember what it was he’d been thinking in that moment -- when Marcus drew him close and kissed him.
There hadn’t been time to utter anything even resembling protest at pulling him forward and potentially off-balance when Marcus’ lips were on his and Bryant’s brain ground to a halt. This. Bryant had forgotten what something like this felt like, though being kissed by Marcus was really like nothing he’d truly experienced. He was out of his depth here, something that always made him fiercely uncomfortable when he stopped to think about it. Except thoughts were temporarily out-of-order, making Bryant react to sensation and impulse. It wasn’t like being kissed by a woman and yet it wasn’t altogether different. It was whiskery and warm. After a startled second, Bryant tremulously kissed him back: not really thinking -- not able to think -- but simply reacting. You couldn’t say there was decided passion on Bryant’s end, not in his surprise and uncertainty, but there was affection there with an undercurrent of something deeper, the pull toward Marcus that he’d felt and denied, denied consciously.
Then it was over and Marcus was gone leaving Bryant more unsteady than he’d been before the cold night air. With wonder, he snapped his eyes open; he hadn’t even been aware of closing them. He stood in the living room and pieced himself back together bemusedly. Gloves were tugged off and stuffed into his pockets, his coat unbuttoned. Blue eyes traced over the items in the living room. The impulse to bolt was there. He could leave. Bryant could leave and try and pretend he hadn’t just kissed another man... except this was the natural progression, wasn’t it? Marcus had been crystal clear where he stood. They’d been (still were?) very much on a date. People did this on dates.
When he’d seen everything there was to see in the living room, Bryant headed for the kitchen. Without express permission, he wouldn’t give himself a tour of the duplex; he wasn’t wired that way and some manners were so deeply ingrained as to be unconscious habit. Unsure if he should take his coat off, where he should put it if he did, Bryant’s brain buzzed at him as he stood at the entranceway to the kitchen and cast his eyes around before letting them settle on Marcus. “You kissed me,” he pointed out, as if Marcus hadn’t been there and initiated the action. The tone wasn’t accusing or rebuking... but curious, wondering. Needing confirmation or clarification or something, because people just didn’t kiss Bryant. It would take some time to rewind his mind and pinpoint the last time he’d been kissed.
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“Yeah,” Marcus responded, fighting an insane impulse to get defensive about it. To start detailing his reasons, hand over an itemized list of motivations for the other man to pick through. It wasn’t like him to feel that need to justify his actions, and the fact that the urge was present in any degree made him wary. Having to rationalize everything made him feel oddly petulant, so he pushed it aside. Instead, he held out one of the two glasses of water he’d poured, offering it to Bryant to ward off any potential hangover. Sadly, he only ever remembered to rehydrate after drinking when he was still sober enough to play the nurse. “I kissed you. You kissed back. Believe me, mijo, I fucking noticed. Here, take this.”
He smirked a bit, drinking from his own glass before he continued. “Could’ve kissed you back at the fucking bar. Thought about it.”
Not seriously. Not in front of that many witnesses, half of whom were people that Marcus wasn’t on the best of terms with. Most of winning someone over was making them feel wanted, though. No harm in letting Bryant think that Marcus might have been that bold, that careless. He could pretend not to give a shit what anyone might say, safe in the belief that Bryant wouldn’t be the one to force him to prove it.
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Automatically, Bryant accepted the glass of water Marcus thrust at him, took a long sip, watched Marcus over the glass. Blue eyes went wide as Marcus pointed out he could’ve kissed him at the bar. Not scared but surprised, for sure. Half the glass of water was gone as Bryant dawdled over his drink, using it as an excuse to stay quiet.
He looked around the kitchen, moved close to the photographs, murmured, “Your family?” in an interested tone, wanting to know more, needing to. In the early stages of their friendship, Marcus might have done more of the talking about himself but it had easily blended into a give and take with more equality. Still, Bryant always listened raptly to whatever Marcus told him.
Lest he think the question was meant as a diversion -- it wasn’t, not really... not entirely -- Bryant moved to stand a little closer to the younger man, turned so he could look into Marcus’ eyes, peering, seeming to look for something specific. Whatever he saw decided him and he gave a slight nod. It was at this point that Bryant allowed himself to believe there was more attraction here than just the fact that the individual he was kissing was his height, that it was beyond the novelty of the experience, that it was Marcus. Bryant let hesitant words spool from him slowly: “I, ah... that is to say... I must admit I-I-I rather liked... er...” Suddenly the water glass in his hand was an object of fascination. “I-I just... I don’t want to... I tend to be a rather disappointing fellow a-and when... when it comes to you, I don’t wish...” Bryant wound down uncomfortably, floundering, unsure where the sentence was going. It had gotten away from him and was a poor way of saying he wanted to kiss Marcus again but didn’t know if he was ready to do more than that. He needed time to catalogue all of the thoughts, feelings, and sensations. Perhaps cataloguing him would make him less... afraid. For he was that, more than a little, and it became apparent in the way he’d started to tremble. Even his hands weren’t entirely steady and that was a point of pride for the mortician.
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Marcus almost tensed when Bryant called attention to the pictures. He didn’t talk about his family, save to say that they weren’t really a factor in his life. Still, some of his half-siblings regularly sent him pictures of their kids -- their families -- as if that was enough to include him. In turn, he would ritualistically display these photographs, replacing old ones with new ones as they were sent in on the fridge. The vapid smiles and vaguely familiar features a reminder that he had some connections in the world, however tenuous they might be. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Bryant would be able to understand that. In fact, he was sure that the older man would. He just didn’t know how to explain it without sounding pathetic, so he simply nodded, confirming. “Sobrinas y sobrinos. Nieces and nephews. Heh, most of them wouldn’t recognize me in a fucking line-up.”
He let Bryant stumble over his next words, paying close attention to the struggle, though the gaze wasn’t accompanied by the usual calculations. Some months ago, Bryant’s nervous gestures had become pointedly endearing. Marcus felt an internal rush at every rise of color, every dropped gaze, and every tremble that he could take credit for. His smile warmed when Bryant started to admit to liking the kiss, but the next partial admission distracted him, forcing him to lift his eyebrows in an expression of amused surprise. “Think you’ll disappoint me?”
That was fucking hilarious.
“Look at me,” Marcus instructed, not wanting to share Bryant’s attention with the water glass. “I don’t want you taking this the wrong way... but shit, mijo, you’ve already done that. You disappointed me the first fucking night we went out, when you didn’t invite me back to your place. Disappointed me every night since. You drive me fucking nuts when you go a week without calling or texting me. Here’s the thing, though. I stuck around. What you can fucking take from that is I’d rather have you disappointing me than not have you.”
There was a brief pause so that he could set down his own glass. He wanted his hands free to take the other man firmly by the shoulders. Marcus was used to talking, often at great length. He liked the sound of his own voice, but he wasn’t generally prone to a lot of sincerity, and he wanted to be sure that Bryant understood the gravity of what he was saying. The underlying confession that this wasn’t exactly normal for him, either. “So you can come to bed with me, stay the night, let me drive you back to your fucking car in the morning, or you can walk the fuck out the door right now and disappoint me again. Either way, doesn’t fucking matter. I’ll still want you. That’s the fucked up part. The punchline. I’m not doing any of this because I think there’s some big payoff for it. I don’t have a lot of fucking expectations. I just want you. Whatever I can get. It’s that fucking simple.”
And for Marcus it was that simple. Or at least it could be. He could read the uncertainty in the older man's posture, could feel the pervasive doubt coming off Bryant in waves, worn like a fucking cologne. He chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the fact that though a heavy silence settled over them, Bryant still didn't take the out. Silence wasn't the response that he'd wanted, but it wasn't a rejection, either. He gave the doctor a solid beat to process, letting his words have a chance to settle in. Then he kissed Bryant again, before the older man could find a way to complicate it.
This time Marcus didn't pull away after, to vanish into another room. He kept eye contact, his gaze more hopeful than predatory now, as he pulled back just enough to speak again. "I can work with anything, mijo, trust. I got this. This is the part I'm fucking good at. Only thing I can't teach is emotion. Deseo. Quiero que me quieres, but if you don't... if you're not feeling it, just fucking tell me."
============
It wasn't reassurance that Bryant felt with those hands on his shoulders, not possessiveness, but a sense of belonging that was absolutely terrifying in the way it made him yearn for such a thing. It was utterly ridiculous in a horrendous romance novel sort of way. Even as he listened seriously, earnestly to Marcus' words, he was composing some of his own. Stepping into the confessional in his mind, Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Benedicite, pater: quia peccavi. It has been a month since my last confession and here are my transgressions: I want what I should not. I, ah, I do believe I want this man... possibly... /probably/... a-and.... that is wrong. Isn't it? Then Marcus kissed him again and Bryant had to hazily tag on a second question. Does it matter?
The possible wrongness never seemed to matter to Marcus. But what Bryant himself thought -- more importantly, what he felt -- did.
'If you're not feeling it, just fucking tell me.'
Bryant realized in a dim sort of way that his hands were fisted in Marcus' shirt, resting on his chest, and the mortician wasn't even thinking about the way the blood pumped through his heart or the major muscle groups he could explore, wasn't detaching himself from the experience out of fear. Then he had to open his eyes, dazed and surprised that he'd closed them during the kiss. Seeing the hope in Marcus' eyes was equally bewildering and it was something Bryant wanted to collect in a specimen jar and look at under a microscope and add to his collection as one of the most wonderful things he'd ever encountered.
Somewhat sheepishly, he loosed his hands from the shirt and smoothed it down, running shaking fingers through his unruly reddish-brown hair before resting a hand on Marcus' shoulder. No, that was wrong, all wrong. This time Bryant didn't notice the tremor that ran through him as he moved the hand shyly to Marcus' cheek. It took him a few seconds, in his nervousness, to find his voice. Or at least to find it after a few stammering false starts and throat clearings. "I, ah, I... I'll... I'd like to... stay." Saying it once made it come out with more conviction the second time. "I want to stay, Marcus."
Trust. Bryant could do that. He was afraid, emotional, confused, awash in new sensations... but he could trust Marcus.
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"Good." It was what Marcus had needed to hear. All he'd needed to hear, and the younger man's expression was beatific in response. He turned his head just slightly, to press lips against Bryant's fingers. A calm certainty radiated out of him. There was no confusion to be found there. No fear or doubt. After another breath the cocky amusement reasserted itself, his mouth twisting back into its usual smirk. A low chuckle, as if he hadn't been worried at all. "Glad that's fucking settled."