CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I met a guy,” Elliot says.
Lucas doesn’t even pause in his mission to eat every crumb of cake off the plate. He does, however, deign to offer Elliot an eye roll. “Just say you’re banging Mark Kade. It saves time.” Which makes Elliot flush an instant, glowing red.
“I’m not banging Mark Kade.”
“Disappointing,” Lucas says, tutting.
Elliot opens his mouth, closes it, locates his backbone, and adds, “But I might be going on a date with him.”
Lucas’ face lights up, and he straightens to full attention. “Yes, baby. When?”
It’s a little embarrassing, really, that his husband’s cheering his love life along. But whatever. Elliot’s far too giddy about it all to care.
“That depends on whether you can have Sammy this weekend.”
“Oh,” says Lucas. He wiggles his eyebrows, looking a complete idiot. “You’re going for a sleepover.”
“No.” At least he doesn’t think so. Fucking hell. “But I’d feel better if the kid was kept out of this for now,” he says, the bitchy and completely unnecessary I’m not like you going unsaid. “It’s very new.” And thrilling and scary and every other adjective that’s had his stomach in a twisting state of constant nerves ever since he and Mark first finalized the details of their date.
Their date.
Oh my god.
Lucas stares at him, apparently watching the thoughts play out on his face. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re gonna fuck.”
And in an attempt to not drown under the weight of his own blush, Elliot raises his eyebrows and says archly, “Why don’t we talk about this Callum I’ve been hearing about lately? Hmm?”
Lucas’ whole being freezes in panic. Elliot smirks.
“Hello?” says Lucas wildly, bringing an unlit and unringing phone to his ear. “Hello? Yes?” He makes a show of covering the mouthpiece and muttering to Elliot, “I have to take this. Text me about picking up Sammy this weekend,” and then rushing out the door, carrying on his ridiculous fake conversation, speaking in a weird grand tone he never actually uses in real life. “Yes, this is I! How can I help you?”
Elliot shakes his head, laughing, forgetting for half a second all about his date on Saturday—then he remembers again, and sinks right back into his pit of nerves and anticipation.
What the fuck is he going to wear?
* * * * *
“Wear the blue one,” Sammy says, appearing from nowhere in the doorway and making Elliot jump. Elliot’s spent the past ten minutes holding up two shirts, frowning between them, pretty sure neither of them is the right choice. Problem is, these shirts are about as nice as his closet gets.
He glances at his son in the mirror. “Yeah?”
“The red one makes you look really pale,” says Sammy. “Like a ghost.”
Chucking the red shirt on the bed, Elliot narrows his eyes and asks, “When did you become such a fashion expert?”
“It doesn’t take an expert to know you look shit in red.”
“Right.” Now his brain’s grinding through gears trying to remember if he’s ever worn red in front of Mark.
“Don’t wear those pants either.”
“Obviously I’m not wearing these pants.” He was kinda planning on wearing these pants. But whatever. He’s got some black jeans somewhere—they go with everything, right?
He yanks off his t-shirt and slips on the blue shirt, staring at himself in the mirror as he does up the buttons. He’s having an ugly day, or whatever you call it—woke up this morning and hated his own reflection. He feels like his skin’s blotchy, his hair won’t behave, and clothes don’t seem to want to hang off him the right way. He sighs at the disaster of it all and lets his arms flop to his side.
Movement in the corner of the mirror catches his eye—Sammy coming closer, stopping at his shoulder. He’s getting tall, Elliot notices, and there’s a certain age to his eyes now. Youthful still, but like he knows his shit a little. Elliot can’t really remember being that aware as a preteen; but then, his memories pre-Mark Kade are a little hazy, as if the world didn’t come into focus until he first saw Mark across the quad in school.
“You’re gonna have a good time,” Sammy says, tone full of conviction. “And he’ll think you look nice.”
Elliot breathes out a soft laugh. “I’ll try not to be too weird.”
“No,” says Sammy, shaking his head. He reaches up to straighten the shirt on Elliot’s shoulder. “Be weird. Be yourself.” He smiles at his dad in the mirror, wise eyes twinkling. “He already likes you.” He pauses, and then: “He looks at you a lot.”
Elliot’s heart thumps. “You know who it is.”
“I’m not stupid,” Sammy says, rolling his eyes. “You don’t go out or see anyone or do anything. Mark’s the first guy you’ve spoken to in, like…ever. Besides,” he says, giving his dad’s back a pat, like he thinks he’s a little adult—which, right now, he kind of is, “like I said, he looks at you a lot.”
The words sink in, and Elliot’s mouth runs dry. “He does?”
“Almost as much as you make those stupid moon eyes at him,” says Sammy, and Elliot goes red.
“I do not make moon eyes.”
The look Sammy gives him is flat, dry, and taking no prisoners. Fortunately, Elliot’s saved by Lucas crashing through the front door and announcing his presence.
“I’m here to remove my child from the sex den!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Elliot mutters.
* * * * *
They do go to the movies. There was some debate via text message about who would pick up who, but they decided in the end to just meet there. It takes away from the whole “date” vibe a little, maybe, or maybe Elliot’s just a traditionalist. What is taken away is his breath when he sees Mark coming through the doors of the movie theatre, because every time Elliot thinks it’s impossible for any human man to look any better, Mark shows up and proves him wrong. He’s wearing a fucking leather jacket, obscenely tight jeans, some kind of biker boot situation, and hair styled like a rock star. It’s a look—not the usual dad look Elliot’s used to seeing on him. This is…this is cool, a little edgy, and it’s sexy as all hell. Elliot suddenly feels like the smallest man in the world in his stupid plain blue shirt.
Mark doesn’t seem to agree, though. His eyes light up when he spots Elliot waiting by the concession stands, and as he comes closer, his eyes rake over Elliot’s whole body, and his throat stains a pale red. There’s definite appreciation in that gaze, and yeah, okay, maybe Elliot really knows how to rock a blue shirt. Maybe “dad chic” is his look, and he owns it. He perks up a little, pulls his shoulders back, offers a smile as Mark reaches him.
“You look amazing,” he says, because—well. Because he doesn’t have a filter, and Mark really does look amazing. There’s no point pretending otherwise.
Mark gives this wholly adorable bashful laugh under his breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks, uh—you too.”
Lies, Elliot’s inner self-doubt whispers, but he tells it to shut up. “Shall we—”
“Yeah.”
Elliot pre-bought the tickets, so they get in line for snacks, behind a harried dad with three young boys running circles around his legs. Mark and Elliot share a knowing smile of commiseration for the dad.
They stand there quietly, shuffling forward in the line, with Elliot going crazy trying to think of something to say—which he probably doesn’t need to, because the silence isn’t exactly awkward, not with all hustle and bustle around them. Still, though, he’s adult enough to admit to himself that he wants Mark’s attention, and the only way to get that right now is to engage him in conversation.
He looks at him, question half-formed: “Where’ve you shipped Wade off—” but the words die on his tongue when he realizes he actually does have Mark’s attention, and quite a lot of it. The guy’s looking at him like he never stopped, like he can’t look away, like he doesn’t know how. Their eyes meet and lock and Elliot swallows, because Mark’s not hiding it anymore; he’s letting it all sit there on his face—his interest, his attraction.
Mark opens his mouth to say something, but he’s knocked off balance by one of the kids tearing about in front, and he falls into Elliot’s space, shoulders nudging, heat meeting in the middle. Elliot’s whole body shivers.
When the poor dad in front has finished making his apologies for his tearaway kids, Mark gives him a gracious smile and a nod and then turns back to Elliot, leans in to murmur into his ear.
“Why have I never seen you in these jeans before?”
Elliot’s mouth, throat, and probably the entirety of his chest cavity runs bone dry. “I—”
A spot opens up at the register to the left and they’re called over, effectively putting an end to Elliot’s torment of not knowing what the fuck to say in response. Something flirty, ideally, and yet…
It’s just been so long. He can’t really remember how to do this. Mark’s the one going on his first date with a guy, and still it’s Elliot feeling like he’s out of his depth.
He likes you, he reminds himself. He’s here because he likes you. Just be yourself.
But being himself is what made Lucas want to cheat on him, because himself is not enough to keep a man interested.
Being himself is how he’s ended up not dating for the past few years, catching no one’s attention, sparking no interest.
Being himself is not being anyone good enough.
“Hey,” says Mark. Both Mark and the cashier are looking at him expectantly. “What are we having?”
“I, uh—”
There’s a bit of a dark cloud forming around him, stealing his ability to think. He stares at the shelf of snacks blankly, seeing nothing, feeling too much.
Mark, with something hitching his voice, says, “Okay. Can we just get, um—two Cokes, large, and uh…”
Elliot tunes him out, takes a step back. There are a lot of people here.
Some time passes, he’s not sure how much, and a warm hand touches his back. “Let’s step outside real quick,” Mark says to him, and then he’s being steered away.
“Our drinks—”
“Don’t worry about it. She’s holding them there for us a minute.”
Once outside in the fresh air and moonlight, Mark takes him to the edge of the building, turns to face him, and asks, “What’s going on?” When Elliot doesn’t respond, Mark lowers his brows, looks over Elliot’s entire face. “You were Mr. Confident in Geoff’s the other day.” He pauses, and then, softly, “Is this a panic attack?”
“No,” says Elliot, finding his voice at last. He swallows a little to clear the dryness from his throat and mutters, “I’m sorry.”
Mark parts his lips to answer, but Elliot cuts him off.
“I’m fine, honestly. I’m not panicking. I just…” He sighs, rakes a hand through the hair he spent an hour trying to make sit right earlier this evening. “I just don’t know how to do this.”
Mark scoffs a laugh. “You think I do?”
“I know,” Elliot says, smiling in a sad sort of way. God, he’s pathetic. “But you’re…you.” He waves a hand to encompass the general perfection of the man before him, before adding miserably, “And I’m not. I’m just…” He swallows again, gathers some fortitude, looks Mark dead in the eye when he says, “I’m the guy no one’s really interested in.”
Mark stares at him, expressionless, wordless.
“Or I’m the guy you marry for fun and then cheat on,” Elliot adds, shrugging as if it’s no big deal when it is, it really fucking is. “And I guess… I kinda didn’t think too hard about why you’re bothering with me. Until now.” He draws in a rattling breath, straightens his back. “No one else ever does.”
Mark’s still staring at him, then he blinks, and then he’s taking Elliot by the wrist and pulling him down the side of the building, into the sheltered alley that separates the small theatre from the Chinese restaurant next door.
He crowds Elliot back against the grubby wall, a few feet away from the dumpsters, stoops his back a little, and puts his hand on the wall beside Elliot’s head.
Elliot’s heart flutters up into his throat. “What—”
Mark kisses him, the kind of kiss where you take a deep breath through the nose while pressing lips to lips, like you need the air to power the overwhelming urge to touch. It stays chaste enough, just a slight shift leading to a cling of lips, then Mark’s spare hand comes up to cup Elliot’s face, fingertips spanning the side of his neck, and their lips part the fraction needed to taste, a soft brush of tongues once, then again, and then Mark’s pulling away. Not going far—hand still holding Elliot’s face, thumb gliding over his cheekbone, eyes heavy lidded and dark. He dips in again, just briefly, to press another kiss to Elliot’s willing mouth, and then he murmurs, “I’m here with you because I want to be.” He pauses, and Elliot dares to bring his hands up, rest them low on Mark’s abs. He can feel the imprint of Mark’s belt against the heels of his hands.
“I’m nervous as hell,” Mark continues, keeping that same low, private tone of voice that’s washing over Elliot’s skin like silk. “I’ve never done anything like this before and I don’t—I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” He breathes a laugh, the whisper of it fluttering across Elliot’s lips. “And if I’d known it’d be this difficult for you—”
“Being out with you isn’t difficult,” Elliot hastens to say. His fingers twitch against Mark’s body, the muscle there going tense beneath his touch. “But believing any guy would take me seriously enough…”
Mark crowds his body a little closer, causing Elliot’s hands to skirt around to his waist. “I’m taking you seriously,” he says, the heat of him pushing against Elliot like a furnace. He tilts his head to the side, dips his knees lower, drops his voice to something edging on the right side of filthy, and smirks. “I’m taking these jeans of yours seriously.”
Elliot can’t help but huff a laugh. “And you say you’re nervous.”
“Nervous,” Mark says, nodding. “Scared I’m gonna fuck this up.” He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, appears to hesitate just a second. His pupils contract. “But I’m not a monk.”
Elliot looks into Mark’s blown eyes and feels static energy spark up in his veins. “You’ve really never—”
“You’d be my first,” says Mark, and Elliot’s got no idea how they’ve ended up on this subject, but it’s shifting that dark cloud settled around him. This he can do. He’s good at it—at least he can remember being good at it, back when he played around a bit, before Lucas stole his confidence. He knows how to fuck, knows how to give a good time in the bedroom; he can make a man want him, unconditionally, if only for an hour. His dick and his mouth and his ass are far more interesting than him as a person. When he’s fucking a guy, he doesn’t have to worry about being not good enough.
It takes the pressure off. Going home to have sex—it clears the nerves, the panic. Fills him with heat and a desire to give. Sitting in a movie theatre, going out for dinner, having drinks—that requires him to be someone worth spending time with. Someone worth getting to know.
And beneath it all, there’s always—always—that underlying desire he feels for Mark, so strong and persistent it makes this a no-brainer, even without all the anxiety and self-doubt. He could be completely self-assured and it still wouldn’t make a difference to his innermost urges.
He wets his lips, tightens his fingers on Mark’s waist. “You wanna skip the movie?”