Chapter Ten
“Ricketts Glen? That’s awesome,” Deacon said, looking over the brochure Mark had handed him. “Maybe you’ll see a bear.”
“A bear?” Mark said.
“Yeah, there’s lots of wildlife there. Great nature trails.”
“A bear?” Mark repeated.
Deacon glanced up, setting the brochure aside. Mark looked horrified, though Deacon wasn’t sure why. His own pledge retreat hadn’t been anywhere near as cool as Ricketts Glen. The Phi Sigs had taken a bus to Hagerstown, which had had fuck all in the way of places to eat or things to do, and stayed in a motel. “You have a problem with bears?”
“Yes, I have a problem with bears! Bears eat people.”
Deacon laughed. “Hardly ever.”
“Bullshit. I’ve read about grizzlies. They crush your skull, and you’re still alive to feel it.”
“You won’t see grizzlies at Ricketts Glen. Black bears. They’ll just gnaw your leg.” He reached out and snagged a handful of Mark’s khakis.
“Don’t!” Mark yelped as Deacon tugged him forward and onto his lap. They were in Deacon’s room, since Deacon’s roommates were out for a while at some club meeting, and Deacon was sitting at his desk. Mark couldn’t stop sneaking wistful glances at Deacon’s bed. He perched on Deacon’s thigh, and Deacon wound an arm around him.
“You look seriously pale. Are you actually scared of bears?”
“Yes.”
“Bears are adorable. You have way more terrifying shit in Australia, don’t you? Sharks, crocodiles…wombats.”
“Wombats are not terrifying.”
“What am I thinking of? Wolverines?”
“Probably.”
“Do you have wolverines in Australia? Or am I just thinking that because Hugh Jackman’s Australian and he’s Wolverine?”
“We don’t have wolverines.”
“Tasmanian devils?”
“That’s us.”
“See? And you have giant snakes and rabid bugs…”
“Okay, it’s not the set of Tremors, Deke. Sharks and saltwater crocs can get you if you go in the water. Bears can get you anywhere.”
“Climb a tree if you see one,” Deacon suggested. “No, wait, black bears can climb.”
“Stop!” Mark struck his shoulder, and Deacon laughed.
“Grizzlies can climb too, for that matter. Just not as well as black bears.”
“Not funny.” Mark was now smacking Deacon hard enough to qualify as assault.
Deacon snickered as he flinched away from the blows. “What?” he asked mock-innocently. “I’m only trying to help.”
“Fat lot of help you are. I do not want to spend two days at a state park with a bunch of pledges, and I definitely don’t want to do it if there’s even a five percent chance I’ll get eaten by a bear.”
“It’ll be good for you.” Now that Mark had stopped trying to brutalize him, Deacon was able to pull Mark closer against him. “You’ll get to know your fellow pledges, get to know the Pennsylvania wilderness… Plus it’ll be gorgeous this time of year, with the leaves. ”
Mark grumbled, resting his head on Deacon’s shoulder. “Where are you taking your pledge group?”
“Phi Sig stopped doing pledge retreats last year. Don’t really have the money.”
“Oh.”
“Which is why we can only afford modest venues for our semiformals, like the Jameson House, unless some other kindly, deep-pocketed fraternity invites us to share their country club.”
Mark grinned. “It’ll be like we’re going to prom together, Deke.”
“Except the air will be thick with resentment on both sides. And the pool will be crowded. And please don’t call it a prom. I like to think what we do is classier than that.”
“Sorry. Prom is my favorite American thing I learned about from movies. That, and your hills are infested with rednecks who like to kill kids with axes.” He bit his lip. “Oh, and that all supervillains, and most Nazis, speak with British accents. And all your telephone numbers start with 555.”
Deacon laughed and tugged Mark’s hair gently. “Nothing else?”
“Just that I want Bruce Willis on my side if shit starts exploding.” Mark rocked back and forth on Deacon’s thigh. His breath quickened.
Deacon slid his hands down Mark’s back, following the curve of his spine through his thin T-shirt. Mark went from zero to sixty in seconds flat, and Deacon relished the challenge of keeping up with him. “You’re so hot.”
Mark leaned back suddenly. “How’s your mum going?”
“What?” Deacon dropped his hands from Mark’s hips. “So, speaking of non sequiturs…”
“Non what?”
“Um,” Deacon said. “I said you were hot, and you asked about my mom. I’m not seeing the connection.”
“I’m being invested. In you.”
Deacon looked at him for a moment. Cocky grin notwithstanding, it was obviously the truth. “You really are, aren’t you?”
Mark’s smile faded at Deacon’s serious tone. He chewed his lip and dropped his gaze. Shrugged. “Yeah, so?”
So you should be able to have a serious talk without making it a joke or running away from it.
“So I think that’s your way of saying we’re an item now,” Deacon said. He put his fingers under Mark’s chin and lifted it. “Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, of course. But I like that you’re invested in me. I want to be invested in you too.”
“Do you?”
“Are you still failing American lit?”
“Way to kill the mood,” Mark said, rolling his eyes. Then he scrambled off Deacon’s lap and dived halfway under Matt’s bed. “What’s this?” He drew out a fuzzy pink sweater. “You been seeing a girl behind my back?”
Deacon laughed. “That’s Matt’s girlfriend’s.”
Mark climbed to his feet again, holding the sweater up against him. “I think it would fit me.”
Deacon stopped laughing and swallowed. He didn’t want to appear too eager, in case Mark was joking. But with a glance at Deacon, Mark dropped the sweater on the floor and peeled his T-shirt off. Smooth skin slid over the bones of his spine as he bent to pick up the sweater. He sucked his stomach in, his ribs protruding as he pulled the pink sweater on. He tugged it down and smoothed it, then looked at Deacon, his grin belying a hint of anxiety in his expression.
Deacon stared at him. Deacon had known some gay guys in high school who’d tried dating girls to pretend, either to themselves or to others, that they were straight. Deacon had come out early enough to avoid the need for pretense. He’d always liked the way girls looked—thought a lot of them were pretty, liked the variety in their clothes and shoes and lingerie that didn’t seem to exist for men. But he’d never so much as pretended to have sexual feelings for a girl.
But something about the combination of girls’ clothes on someone he was attracted to made Deacon so hard he couldn’t think of anything to say, couldn’t think about anything except wanting to fuck Mark while Mark was wearing that sweater. His skin heated and prickled. He sat down on the bed and watched Mark. The sweater hugged Mark, but not too tightly. It looked soft and comfortable. The V-neck exposed Mark’s collarbone, and the sleeves were just a little too short for his arms, showing the defined bones of his wrists.
“Well?” Mark asked. He sounded uncertain.
Deacon forced himself to smile. “It fits,” he said. It was the best he could come up with. There was so much more he wanted to say, but he didn’t know how to say it without sounding stupid.
“I’ll take it off,” Mark said quickly, grabbing for the hemline.
“No!” Deacon stood, arm out as though ready to physically stop Mark from taking the sweater off, if necessary.
Mark froze and looked at Deacon. This time there wasn’t anything cocky in his expression. He looked bewildered as Deacon stepped toward him.
“You look good,” Deacon said quietly, reaching out to touch the fabric. “God, Mark.”
“Were you seriously into it?” Mark asked. “That night at the party, when I had the stockings on and all that?”
“Yeah,” Deacon said. “You think that’s weird?”
“Well, considering I was the one in the stockings and lacy knickers, no, I don’t think it’s weird. I just…didn’t know if you were kidding around when you said it was hot.”
Deacon shook his head.
“Good.” Mark caught Deacon’s hand and shoved his fingers between Deacon’s. Brought their joined hands down to his hip. “Because I like the way you were looking at me just now.”
Deacon extended his fingers around Mark’s and stroked Mark’s hip bone, gently teasing the hem of the sweater. “Like a drooling maniac?”
“It’s, um, awesome. That there’s something so simple I can do to make you happy.”
Deacon squeezed Mark’s hand, then released it. He put his arms around Mark and drew him close, running his hands over Mark’s back, feeling the fuzzy material, smelling the hint of Kate’s perfume that lingered on the fabric. Mark pressed his face against the side of Deacon’s neck, his body rigid, then relaxing against Deacon. Mark sucked lightly at Deacon’s throat while Deacon continued to stroke his back.
Deacon slid one hand down Mark’s jeans and squeezed his ass through his underwear. Mark gave a soft moan; his knees buckled slightly, and his whole body met Deacon’s. Deacon could feel how hard Mark was, how hard they both were. Mark’s teeth closed on the spot on Deacon’s throat he’d been sucking. Deacon shut his eyes and tipped his head back, giving Mark easier access. He gave a sharp gasp as Mark rubbed the bulge in his pants against Deacon’s.
Deacon kneaded Mark’s ass again, trying to see how far down Mark’s pants he could get his hand. He brushed Mark’s balls, the fabric encasing them warm and damp. He pushed his other hand up Mark’s sweater, using his nails in broad circles all over Mark’s back. Mark shivered and let his head drop against Deacon’s shoulder once more. He gripped Deacon tightly, shifting his hips forward.
Deacon withdrew his hand from Mark’s pants and thrust both his hands up the front of Mark’s sweater, easing Mark back just enough that he had room to explore, and that Mark drew his head up to kiss Deacon. Deacon found Mark’s nipples and rolled them, tugged on them. He loved the way Mark inhaled, held his breath, and then took in more air a little at a time, like he was gearing up to sneeze, until Deacon stopped pinching him. Then his breath came out in a rush against Deacon’s lips. Deacon smiled and dipped a hand under Mark’s waistband again, this time in the front. Wedged his fingers under the elastic of Mark’s underwear and played with his cock, spreading precum down his shaft. Mark tensed and pushed against Deacon’s hand.
Deacon rubbed harder, faster, and Mark dug his fingertips into Deacon’s back. “Deke, can I come?” Mark asked, breathless. “Please? I need— Can I come?”
Mark asked the question so sincerely, so desperately, and all Deacon could think was that he’d never heard Mark ask permission to do anything. Yet it made Deacon giddy, almost light-headed, that Mark had asked.
“Come for me,” Deacon whispered. “Right now.”
Mark rocked his hips once more, and then Deacon’s hand was covered in Mark’s cum, hot and sharp smelling. Deacon left his hand there for several minutes, wanting to feel Mark’s cock as it softened. Mark’s heart was still pounding against Deacon’s chest even as his breathing slowed.
Eventually Deacon withdrew his hand. He wiped it on his pants and leaned forward to kiss Mark’s jaw. “You,” he said, “are so. Fucking. Beautiful.”
Mark murmured something Deacon didn’t catch—it might not even have been words—and slid to his knees in front of Deacon. He undid Deacon’s fly and sucked Deacon as expertly as he had that time in the alley. Deacon kept his hands on Mark’s shoulders, hooking his fingers in the neckline of the sweater and gradually stretching it to expose as much of Mark’s lightly freckled skin as possible. He came quickly, and Mark swallowed, then pressed his forehead against Deacon’s thigh. Deacon stroked his hair.
“Thank you,” Deacon whispered.
Mark sighed. He was clutching Deacon’s pant leg like a little kid.
Deacon stooped and urged him up. Guided him onto the bed and helped him out of his pants, then the sweater.
“I should wash that,” Mark murmured as Deacon folded it and put it aside. “I sweated in it.”
“We can do laundry a little later,” Deacon said. He climbed into bed beside Mark and curled around him. Mark stroked Deacon’s forearm. “We’ve never been able to do this before. The other times we’ve fucked, we’ve had to leave right after because we were somewhere we weren’t supposed to be.”
Mark didn’t answer right away. Deacon wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But then he said, “Now we’re somewhere we’re supposed to be?”
Deacon grinned and tightened his arms around Mark, dropping a kiss on his shoulder. “I think so.”
* * * *
The leaves will be nice, everyone always said, as though leaves were magical things that only existed in Pennsylvania, and Mark would never have seen one before in his life. But in the spirit of trying to be more…flexible, Mark dutifully looked at the leaves when the pledges got to Ricketts Glen. He didn’t touch them, though, because they were probably poison ivy. And maybe even concealing bears.
It was not dumb to be scared of bears. Fear of a large, fast predator with razor-sharp teeth and claws was in fact totally rational. It was an evolutionary edge. The caveman who saw the saber-tooth tiger and said, “Aw, nice kitty,” didn’t get to spread his genetic material far and wide throughout the tribe, did he? No, that honor belonged to Og, who’d started running the second the cat appeared. What was dumb was to come and set up camp in predators’ territory and then expect them not to try and eat you.
Still, at least there was beer on this trip, courtesy of the big bros who had loaded up the pledges before they left. Mark cracked his first one open as he climbed out of the car at Ricketts Glen. The cabin was nice, and presumably bear-proof, so Mark relaxed a little. By beer number three he was actually enjoying being with the other pledges, who all knew his name, and not just because he was strange and foreign and stuck out like a sore thumb.
“Mark, you give it to Bengal,” one of them—Dan—said. “You’re, like, the only one who doesn’t care about talking back to him.”
Dan said it like there was something brave about that, or admirable, but there wasn’t, was there? Who the hell pledged to a fraternity in the expectation that he’d get thrown out in a heartbeat anyway? It wasn’t rebellious. It wasn’t proving anything. It was just a colossal waste of time. Time that could have been better spent studying, going by Mark’s latest results, or, better still, with Deacon’s cock up his arse.
Mark hauled his bag into the room he was sharing with Dan and flung it on the bed. He’d packed light and was worried now that the night would be cold, and Dan would probably not believe any “let’s share body warmth” story he came up with. He pulled on his hoodie and hoped that would be enough and then went back out into the den.
So. A fireplace. How did those work exactly? And this was one of those open numbers too, not a safely-behind-glass job. It seemed sort of dangerous. And Mark had the feeling his previous experience with building fires, which usually consisted of driftwood on the beach, was not going to be much help here.
“Does anyone know how to work this?” he asked.
“You’re kidding, right?” Blond Pledge asked. Shit, he really had to get on top of names by the end of the weekend.
“Nope,” Mark said, trying his hardest not to take offense. “At home when it gets cold, I put on socks. This is a whole other level.”
“It’s not even cold.”
“That is entirely relative,” Mark said.
“Relative to what?” Blond Pledge asked.
Mark stared glumly at the fireplace. “I dunno. History? Experience? The fact that I didn’t pack a jacket?”
Blond Pledge laughed. “You can borrow mine if you want.”
“Thanks,” Mark said.
The point of this weekend was ostensibly for the pledges to get to know one another better, but the brothers had assured them that the real purpose was to get shit-canned. They’d spent four weeks being brutalized and humiliated together, which was supposed to have been a catalyst for the bonding process, and now they had two days in the forest to drink and bitch about their tormentors.
Mark was unsurprised to learn that nobody liked Bengal. “The brothers hate his ass too!” Dan declared. “My big says they all want to get rid of him, especially after that shit with Brandon.”
Mark felt a sudden stab of guilt. Brandon should have been here with him, not holed up in his dorm back on campus.
“Yeah, the thing is,” a pledge named Fraser said, “Alpha Delt’s reputation is kind of a new thing. Like, yeah, they’ve always had the biggest house and thrown the biggest parties, but it’s only in the last few years it’s become known as Prescott’s big dumb party frat.”
“Didn’t you used to have to keep a 3.2 to stay in?” a red-haired kid asked. Mark didn’t know his name, remembered him from a night when the brothers had taken turns dumping red stuff into the kid’s hair—ketchup, chili powder, sprinkles, and something Bengal said was blood but that had smelled more like corn syrup and food coloring.
“Yep,” Fraser said. “And the hazing shit wasn’t as bad. Chris and Bengal and them make this big deal about how every brother before us had it worse than us, but really, once they started letting people like Bengal in, it got way worse for pledges. My dad’s friend was an Alpha Delt, like, forty years ago. Worst that happened was they got paddled some and got dropped off in the woods and had to walk like twelve miles back to campus.”
“Paddling is the gayest shit ever,” muttered the redhead. Mark tried not to take it personally.
“Traditioooooonnnnn!” sang another pledge, who was approaching with more beer. He slung the case down, and everyone attacked it. “Paddling is tradition.”
“Yeah, you like it too much, fag,” Dan said, popping open his can. A couple of guys laughed.
“I only like it when my boyfriend does it,” the pledge—Mark thought his name was Sean—said, sitting down with their group. More laughter.
“Dude, when’s Ellis coming to visit?” Dan asked. “I wanna serve him Joe Pa’s head on a plate.”
“Penn Staters don’t come visit lowly little Prescott,” Probably Sean said. “He’s making me go there for fall break. And he’s got us tickets for a game.”
Mark was confused. Was Ellis real? And was he actually Probably Sean’s boyfriend? Impossible.
Fraser glanced over at Mark and grinned. “You gotten hooked on football yet?”
“Uh, no,” Mark said. “I mean, I like football okay. Real football.”
“What, like soccer?”
“Rugby League.”
“I saw a rugby match when I went to Peru,” Dan said. “It was pretty badass.”
“It’s, um, it’s different,” Mark said. “Rugby Union and League. They’re different.”
Dan shrugged.
Fraser addressed Mark. “Okay, all you gotta know is that most sensible Prescott people root for Penn State. They’re our closest neighbor with any football team to speak of. Prescott’s got a football team, but it’s like—like what would you say, Sean?”
“Like steaming turds in jerseys,” Definitely Sean said.
“Like they put hobos in uniforms and made them play for free bananas,” the red-haired kid said.
“Do not tell Blake we’re saying this,” Sean said to Mark.
“Stop!” Dan said. “Prescott won the national title!”
“In 1893,” Fraser said. “In D-III.”
“So? I’d rather spend my energy rooting for my school than rooting for a fucking empire that cares more about its team than about a bunch of kids who—”
“Uh-uh,” Red Hair said. “This is not about the scandal. It’s about the team’s ability to play football.”
Mark tuned them out for a few minutes. He couldn’t believe he was here, hanging out with these guys, and he didn’t want to kill himself. In fact, it was kind of…fun. Even though he had no idea what they were talking about.
Blond Pledge came back over. He’d been put in charge of the retreat. “So,” he said, consulting a form. “It says here we’re supposed to play some game involving M and Ms to learn shit about each other. But I was talking to some of the other guys, and we were thinking maybe we’d just eat all the M and Ms and get drunker?”
A cheer went up from Mark’s group, and even Mark grinned.
“Sounds like a plan,” Fraser said.
“And, uh…” Blond Pledge looked at the paper again. “Do any of you guys wanna go on a nature walk?”
Dan and Red Hair snickered, but Sean said, “I do.” He sounded sincere. “But tomorrow. We’re too cozy right now.”
“Cool,” Blond Pledge said.
He walked away, and everyone proceeded to get drunker. From other areas of the cabin, Mark could hear cheers, whoops, and, somewhere, singing.
At one point, Mark found himself mumbling along with a “Down with Bengal” chant and nodding enthusiastically when several pledges suggested they ought to try to get Bengal thrown out.
“At least, like, get revenge,” Blond Pledge said. “Do something to totally humiliate him. Mark could help us figure something out.”
“Yeah,” Dan said, tilting his fifth beer precariously toward Mark. “Wha’shuddwedo, Mark?”
Mark was surprised to find the pledges looking to him as a leader as they discussed possible fates for Bengal. “I’ll think about it,” Mark said eventually. Revenge plotting while drunk was probably not the best idea. And Deacon had made him promise to be reasonably stupid.
Soon it was dark, and they were telling ghost stories—or slurring ghost stories—many of which featured girls from Zeta Tau as the main characters and situations that involved irreparable damage to the girls’ shirts. Mark found himself in the middle of a story with only the foggiest notion of what he’d been saying for the last ten minutes. A few of his audience members were passed out, but a couple of them looked invested.
“There was a scratch…scratch…scratch… It seemed to be coming from the alcove. Then Jason pulled back the…uh…curtain.” Was it Mark’s head that was bobbing, or the room? “And found himself face-to-face with a hideous bear.”
“A bear?” Fraser interrupted woozily. “Not a ghost?”
“Bears are scarier than ghosts,” Mark explained.
“But if it’s a bear, Jason could just shoot it. You can’t shoot ghosts.”
In the moment, it seemed to Mark a blindingly good point. “A ghost bear,” he amended. “Had t’fight a hideous ghost bear. And the kidzzwere…were still…gone…out in the bush…I mean the woods with the…shovel.” Mark glanced around the room. Brothers. These guys were going to be his brothers. And some of them sucked, and some of them were morons, but some of them were okay, and it was kind of cool that they were all out here, hanging out. Maybe between all of them, they could take a bear.
“Is that it?” Fraser asked.
“Um.” Mark looked at the empty can he was holding. “I think I need more bear. Beer. I need more beer.”
“Are you sure, dude?” Blond Pledge asked.
“I am sure,” Mark said, enunciating carefully. He tapped his chest. “Because I am eighteen, and technically not…not underage because I am lee-legally allowed to drink at home.”
“That’s not how it works!” Blond Pledge said.
“It is so.” Mark slung an arm around Fraser’s shoulders. “Fraser!”
He and Fraser staggered to the kitchen, where they found more beer and talked awhile longer. Mark didn’t remember going to sleep, but he woke around four a.m. to make a trip to the toilet to puke. He had a text from Deacon: Hope you’re having fun.
Mark was in no state to text back, but he tried anyway. He wanted Deacon to know he wasn’t having a bad time. He wanted Deacon to know that he was never drinking again. He wanted Deacon to know he missed him, that when he got home, he was going to go shopping at Victoria’s Secret just for him, and that the leaves were pretty fucking nice here, and that maybe being an Alpha Delt wasn’t the worst fate you could wish on somebody.
* * * *
“So you had a good time,” Deacon said.
“I wouldn’t call it a good time.” Mark passed Deacon the bread. They were eating at Mama Luna’s, a cheap, student-friendly knockoff of Italian fine dining. And Deacon had ordered wine. Like this was a date. Which Mark was okay with. Good. Dates. Yes. Bring them on.
“Mark.”
“It was pretty fun. And I didn’t get eaten by a bear. So, you know, yay.”
“The bears have all started hibernating by now anyway.”
“Are you serious? You let me spend a whole weekend in terror, and the bears aren’t even awake?”
Deacon grinned. “I didn’t want to spoil your fun.”
Mark threw a piece of bread crust at him. It landed in Deacon’s wineglass. Deacon picked it out, then ate it. “Gross,” Mark said. “Anyway, yeah, I was too hungover to worry about bears on the nature walk. I drank a lot, Deke. A lot.”
Deacon didn’t say anything. Just raised his eyebrows.
“Which was really stupid,” Mark said. “I mean, what sort of dickheads load up a bunch of pledges with alcohol and send them off with no supervision? How is that ever a good idea?”
“Wait. You’re blaming them for you guys drinking too much?” A smile tugged at the corner of Deacon’s mouth.
“Well, I can’t be trusted to do the right thing. You know that.” Mark rolled his eyes. “But mostly, you know, it was pathetic. A few of the guys went to bed early, and the rest of us were on their case and everything. But it turned out that was the smart group. You know, the ones not stopping to throw up on the walk the next day. Why am I never in the smart group, Deke?” He screwed up his nose. “No, don’t answer that.”
Deacon was good enough not to.
“Anyway. The nature walk was hellish, but it turns out the guys aren’t so bad. And I had no fucking idea I wasn’t the only gay guy in Alpha Delt.” On the nature walk, Sean had shown Mark a picture of Ellis, his Penn State boyfriend. Mark had still half thought the whole Ellis thing had been fabricated by the other pledges to fuck with Mark. That maybe Ellis was actually Sean’s brother or something. But then Sean had shown Mark another photo of him and Ellis kissing in front of Beaver Stadium.
“You sound angry.”
“I’m not. Why would I be angry? I just don’t know why any homo in his right mind would pledge Alpha Delt.”
“Um…” Deacon said.
“I don’t count. I’m obviously not in my right mind.”
“Fair enough.”
“And, like, the guys joke about Sean, but they’re not awful to him. No one took him out to the woods and clubbed him with the fire poker or anything. I’m just…surprised. I don’t know why it bothers me. It doesn’t bother me.”
Deacon grinned. “Maybe you’re a little jealous someone stole your gay Alpha Delt thunder.”
Mark felt a flash of annoyance. “This is not about thunder. It’s about how Bengal and a couple of the other guys are totally homophobic, and Sean’s just, what, hanging out enjoying the party? And the other pledges are just casually asking him when his boyfriend’s gonna visit? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I still think you were brave to come out.”
Mark sighed. “Please, Deke. I’m not looking for a Victoria Cross here. I just… Whatever. Moving on. How was your weekend?”
Deacon rolled his spaghetti carefully around his fork and didn’t look at Mark, though his eyebrows had gone up a bit, presumably at Mark’s tone. Mark gritted his teeth. He didn’t know why he felt so irritated. He’d had a pretty good weekend, and now he was with Deacon again, on a rather datish excursion, and everything should have been perfect.
“Not bad,” Deacon said.
“Your mum’s okay?”
Deacon nodded, sticking a forkful of spaghetti in his mouth and chewing. “She’s all right. My—” He took a moment to finish chewing and swallow. “My brother’s coming home soon.”
“Did I know you had a brother?”
“He’s been in Afghanistan the last four years. I don’t talk about him much.”
“Do you not get along?”
“We get along fine. Just, he’s been gone, and I don’t know much about what’s going on with him. Anyway, I would have thought that’d be great news for my mom. Ben’s death is number one on her list of worries. But now I guess she thinks if she gets her hopes up, Ben will definitely die, like, the day before he goes home.”
Mark pushed some gnocchi around on his plate. “Gotta be rough, isn’t it? To have her always be so worried?”
“Yeah, it can get a little stressful. It’s just sad because she knows it’s irrational, but she can’t change how she thinks. It was easier when Ben was around, since she’s better when she can keep an eye on us. Once we get a certain number of miles away, we might as well be dead.”
“So maybe once Ben’s home and she sees he’s in one piece, she’ll start relaxing?”
“I hope so.”
Mark wasn’t sure what to say next. His impulse was to make a joke. But maybe what he ought to do was what Deacon had had the balls to do for him—let him know he was here for him. That Deacon had a friend if he needed one. Mark just wasn’t good at saying shit like that. And to be honest, someone like Deacon, who drove home to check on his mother every weekend, probably didn’t need help from someone like Mark, who was skilled at lamenting his own difficulties but less than brilliant at supporting other people through theirs.
Deacon went on. “I’m hoping if Ben’s around, maybe I can skip a few home visits toward the end of the semester. Things are gonna get crazy when we’ve got semiformal and finals to worry about.”
Mark had to grin. “Especially with planning for the semiformal going so well.”
Neither of them was part of the planning process, but apparently the joint committee had met earlier in the week, and it hadn’t been pretty.
Deacon laughed. “I’m blaming it on your house.”
“Um, excuse me? I think the problem was the Phi Sigs’ theme ideas. Murder Mystery? Really?”
“Better than Winter Wonderland or whatever your guys were pushing for.”
“From what I understand, we’re only pushing for that because Chris’s girlfriend suggested it. And he owes her for getting drunk a couple of weeks ago and grinding with Allison Somebody from the Asian sorority.” Mark finished his wine. “I hate snow, so Winter Wonderland seems like a fitting theme for an event I don’t want to attend.”
Deacon nudged Mark under the table. “You’re gonna like snow this year. I promise.”
“Highly doubt it.”
“First snow, we’ll do something fun.”
If you still want to be anywhere near me by the time that happens. “Can the fun thing be staying inside and closing the curtains so I don’t get cold just looking at it?”
“Nope.”
They ate for a few minutes in silence. “I guess Murder Mystery would be a good theme if I decide to fake my own death to stop our houses from feuding, huh, Romeo?” Deacon gave him a look he couldn’t read, so Mark dropped his gaze and tore off another hunk of bread. “Or if I want the perfect opportunity to murder Bengal and not have anyone notice right away.” He swirled the bread in what little olive oil remained on his plate. “I’m not letting him get away with what he did to Brandon, you know. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t know about his history—” He caught the look on Deacon’s face. “Shit. Shit. I wasn’t supposed to say that.”
“It’s okay,” Deacon said. He shrugged. “I figured there was a reason he freaked out. And it doesn’t go any further.”
Mark sighed. “Anyway, the other guys agreed Bengal needs to get kicked the fuck out of Alpha Delt. Even the other brothers hate him, which I didn’t know.”
He felt stupid admitting it. Maybe Sean had stolen his gay thunder. And maybe the rest of the pledges had stolen his Bengal-is-a-wanker thunder. Mark had been holding on to all that anger, and it hadn’t been misplaced exactly, but it hadn’t been righteous either. Not when Mark was so in love with the idea of being martyred by the frat for his attitude, his sexuality, and his nationality that he hadn’t noticed the other pledges weren’t all falling into line like good little pod people. Mark wasn’t the lone individual in a sea of conformity and douchebaggery after all.
And he’d been so enamored with the idea of being distracted from his self-indulgent misery by being fucked by a hot guy that he’d never thought about all the shit that Deacon might have going on in his life.
“Your stars are wrong,” he said later as they walked back to campus hand in hand.
“Do you mean we’re star-cross’d?” Deacon teased him.
“No. I mean, you spend your entire life looking up at the pattern of the stars, and then you change hemispheres and it’s suddenly different. There are whole constellations you can’t name anymore. When I was a kid, my Uncle Steve used to take me camping. I was six when I picked the Southern Cross for the first time. When I saw it, I mean, and not just some random pattern. When I was older, I used to sit on my board at night and watch it. And it was no big thing, until it wasn’t there anymore. Until I went outside here one night for a smoke and a think, and I looked and saw your stars were wrong.”
Deacon squeezed his hand. “We should go camping one night. I can at least show you the Big Dipper.”
“I’ve seen your Big Dipper,” Mark said with a leer and then snorted. “Actually, let’s not call it that. That sounds weird.”
“Yeah, we were never going to call it that,” Deacon said, rolling his eyes.
Mark grinned, and then his attention was caught by a display in a shopwindow. “Shit. Check that out.” He tugged on Deacon’s hand, pulling him to a stop.
There were girlie clothes, and then there were girlie clothes. And this was proper stuff. Not saucy French-maid stuff, but proper stuff: lace and silk and pretty ribbons and catches. And Deacon had that strange look on his face that was kind of horrified, but mostly turned on. As though he liked it but was ashamed to admit that he liked it.
“I want that,” Mark said, pointing to a soft blue satin set of things: knickers, a camisole, and a suspender belt. He leaned so close to the window that his breath fogged it up. “I want you to fuck me when I’m wearing it.”
He turned his head to watch Deacon’s expression, because this was a big step. This wasn’t unplanned like the French-maid thing. And it wasn’t coincidental, like the pink fuzzy sweater lying on the floor. This was actually acknowledging that maybe Deacon had a thing for seeing Mark in girl’s underwear, and maybe Mark had a thing for seeing Deacon so turned on by that, and taking control of it. Because Deacon might freak out about this, might laugh it off and back away, when it wasn’t a joke. It was a long way from a joke.
Mark wanted to wear the lingerie. He wanted to feel the slide of the fabric over his skin as Deacon touched him. He wanted to be shameless, and he wanted Deacon to see it.
“Let’s go in,” Mark said.
They went into the shop, Deacon glancing around nervously, as though Mark had suggested they try to score some cocaine off the woman behind the counter. The woman greeted them and gave no indication she thought it was strange for two men to have come into a lingerie shop together. Mark went straight for the blue satin set. Flinched at the price tag—how they could charge so much for so little material was beyond him—but he picked it up anyway. The fabric felt as slippery cool and delicate as he’d imagined, and he could picture Deacon running his palm over the ruffles, yanking the knickers to one side so he could thrust a finger into Mark’s arse…
“What do you think?” he asked Deacon, holding it up.
“Do you actually like wearing this stuff?” Deacon asked uncertainly.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “I really do.”
“But is it…?” Deacon paused. “Would you like it even if I didn’t?”
Mark nodded, looking at the cashier, who didn’t appear to be paying them any mind. “Might not have figured out I liked it for a while, without you. Not saying I have a burning need to put on girls’ knickers. But damn, it’s hot to wear them when you’re fucking me.”
Deacon studied the lingerie set again. The longing in his expression was so blatant it was almost funny.
“So I’ll get it, then,” Mark said. “Unless you want to make a case for another set. I like the blue, personally.”
“You really don’t have to. That’s a lot of money.”
Okay, he’d been hoping Deacon would be 100 percent on board with this. Because the longer he stood here holding the lacy underwear, the more foolish he felt. “I know I don’t have to,” he said, trying not to sound impatient. Wasn’t like Mark had never felt shame over his infatuation with arse play. He’d covered it up by being more brazen, by talking dirtier. Now it didn’t bother him at all. Maybe Deacon just needed time to come to terms with his interest. Time and practice. “I want to.”
“I’ll pay for half.”
“Nope.” Mark started for the counter, then stopped at the rack of stockings. “It’s called a gift, Deke.” He selected a pair of gray stockings with lace detail. “Besides, I’m not interested in sharing custody. Imagine: it’s Friday night, and all I want to do is dress up and sprawl on the common room couch, sipping champagne and puffing on one of those cigarette holders, but I can’t because it’s your weekend with the knickers.” Mark didn’t bother keeping his voice down.
“Hey.”
Mark turned.
Deacon was grinning, his eyes full of hope and wonder. “If it’s Friday night, I’m gonna be right there with you, watching you put on those knickers.”
Mark grinned too. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“Holy fuck,” Deacon whispered, nodding at the ensemble in Mark’s arms. “You’re gonna look so hot in that. Mark, I… Seriously, thank you.”
“One night soon, we are gonna get that hotel.”
Deacon followed Mark to the counter. “What’s wrong with tonight?” he asked casually, stepping beside Mark as Mark handed his stuff to the cashier.
Mark nearly shivered.
What was wrong with tonight was that tomorrow was Monday, and Mark had a quiz in American lit.
“I want to,” he said. “I want to so much, but I’ve got a quiz tomorrow. Which, you know, I’m gonna fail anyway, so I s’pose—”
“No.” Deacon raised his eyebrows. “Study first, and play later. You pass that test, and later in the week we’ll get that hotel room.”
Mark pulled his credit card out of his wallet and handed it to the cashier. He wondered fleetingly if Jim actually read the bills or just paid them. Because this might make for an interesting topic of conversation. Say, Mark, I couldn’t help but notice you spent two hundred dollars at a lingerie store. Did your card get stolen, champ?
“Okay,” he said. “Study first, says the Phi Sig nerd.”
Deacon flashed him a smile. “That’s the spirit. You’re getting the hang of this fraternity-rivalry thing after all.”
Mark hugged his wrapped lingerie to his chest as they headed back out onto the street. “Yay me.”