Chapter Thirteen
Ben had lost weight. Deacon had seen some portrait project online a few months ago, where a photographer had taken pictures of soldiers before they left for active duty, midway through their service, and when they came home. Almost all the soldiers were thinner in the final picture. There was something in their eyes too. A hauntedness—it sounded like a cliché, but it was true. They looked a little bit colder.
Ben didn’t have the haunted look. He looked good. The leaner frame suited him—he’d always been heavy—and he looked tan and fit and…older. It was striking to see him standing in a room where his senior picture hung on the wall. Deacon could see how mature and defined his face had gotten in the past four years.
He’d last seen Ben eight months ago, when Ben was on leave. The changes in his brother hadn’t really registered with Deacon then, maybe because he was always aware Ben’s visits were temporary, and so he kept himself somewhat at a distance. Maybe too, on some level, he’d believed what his mother had believed—that Ben would never come home for good.
But here he was, sitting on the living room couch. He gestured more with his hands now, Deacon noticed. Like he was giving signals to members of his platoon or something. Deacon had a very cinematic image of Ben in a place full of red dust, his back against a mud wall, rifle clutched to him, bombs exploding nearby, motioning to the other guys to hold…hold…now! Probably totally inaccurate. Deacon felt a stab of guilt for never showing any real interest in what Ben’s day-to-day life in the army was like.
“I was thinking tomorrow we could go to Do or Dine,” Deacon’s mother was saying. “My treat.” Do or Dine was a local diner Deacon had never cared for, but that Ben had always loved. Their mother was in a good mood, glad to see Ben, trying slightly too hard to keep conversation going.
Deacon felt something suspiciously like resentment. I was here. All these years, I was here, and Ben was gone. You lost how many nights of sleep worrying about him? And now he’s here, and everything’s fine. We’ll go to his favorite fucking restaurant.
Deacon was instantly mortified. Ben was home. From war. Why shouldn’t they eat where Ben wanted to eat? Why shouldn’t their mother be happy, relaxed? Why shouldn’t Deacon, for that matter? He couldn’t believe he was stupid enough, selfish enough, to care that his mother’s attention was now focused on someone else. But for so long, the situation had been the same: Deacon’s mother needed Deacon. Ben was far away, the name and face she put to a broader spectrum of anxieties, but it was Deacon whose presence comforted her. Deacon whose job it was to be around. And as many times as Deacon had wished over the years that it was someone else’s job too, he found himself suddenly territorial.
“That sounds good,” Ben said.
“Deacon?”
Deacon forced a laugh. “Well, you know it’s never been my favorite place, but sure.”
He winced inwardly. What was his problem? Did he have to say it like that?
“You still liking Prescott, Deke?”
It took Deacon a second to realize Ben was talking to him.
“Yeah. It’s been a good fit.”
Ben grinned. “Gotta be close to midterms, right? Phi Sig having wild study sessions?”
“Yep. Everyone’s got their nose in their books. Except Matt.”
“Why not Matt?”
“He’s been seeing some girl, and he thinks he’s in love.”
“So he’s got his nose in something else, then.” Ben laughed.
Deacon was taken aback.
“Ben!” their mother said, in the tone she used when she was pretending to be appalled by something one of them had said or done. Then she laughed.
Deacon actually was appalled.
Ben and their mother went on to talk about something else, and Deacon finally excused himself and went upstairs, where he flopped on his bed and texted Mark.
Is it weird if the guys in your fraternity feel more like your brothers than your real brother?
He had to wait almost ten minutes for a response, and in that period he managed to convince himself no less than three times that it was idiotic to go asking for attention like this from Mark. But he wanted to know what Mark would say.
Maybe this was the touch-and-go part of the relationship. The part where he tested Mark to see if Mark could handle being a boyfriend. If it was safe to tell Mark what was on his mind and know Mark would support him.
Or maybe it was too early for that.
Way too early for that, Deacon panicked. He and Mark should focus on having fun and having sex, and Deacon should keep his self-pity and his family drama to himself. Mark was going to start thinking Deacon was a drag otherwise.
Except what had he told Mark the other night? “Don’t run away. Not from the stuff you want to say to me.”
He hadn’t just meant about sex. He wanted Mark to tell him what was on his mind. So Mark should want the same thing from Deacon, right?
Deacon’s phone buzzed. He sat up and looked at the screen.
I feel that way about the ADs, but only because I don’t have a real brother.
Deacon smiled, but part of him was disappointed. Of course Mark would make a joke, and now Deacon felt extra stupid for sending the text.
The phone buzzed again. It wasn’t a text. Mark was calling him. Deacon picked up.
“Hey,” Deacon said.
“Hey. How’s the reunion going?”
“Um, okay.”
“Really?”
“It is fine. Just a little weird, having him home.” Deacon paused. “I think I might be… I don’t know. Maybe I have a thing for being needed.” It was a strange thing to say to Mark when Deacon hadn’t even said it to himself yet.
“Like your thing for ladies’ unmentionables?”
Deacon laughed. “Yeah. Sort of. Ben says he’s gonna stick around here for a few weeks. So he and my mom’ll spend lots of time together, and maybe she’ll be all right without me. Which is great. I’d love to not come home every weekend. And it’s not like she needs me around in order to function. A lot of the time she’s fine; I just like being around because I always thought it helped her. But maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it’s some weird thing where seeing me so often makes her even more aware of my absence when I’m not there. And now I’m burdening you with all this, and I can’t shut up.”
Mark was silent. “Have you tried asking her?”
“If she wants me around?”
“I’m sure she wants you around. Knowing you, I can attest that life is considerably more enjoyable when you’re around. I mean asking her how she feels about not having you home every weekend. If she feels like she can manage on her own, or with just Ben, or…”
“I’m not sure what I want the answer to be,” Deacon admitted. “Is that sick? Are we codependent?”
“I’m no psych major, thank God—can you imagine?—but it sounds like you care about each other. And you’re used to being around for her, and even though it’s stressful, it probably makes you feel good to be able to help somebody. Gives you a, uh…a sense of purpose, maybe? Not that you don’t— I mean, I’m sure you have other purposes.”
Deacon smiled. “No, you’re right. I guess I get kind of used to patterns. Uh, studying, and going to class, and going home each weekend. ‘If you do this, you get this result.’ I like when things always work the same way.”
“Probably a good way for engineers to feel. Otherwise we’d have all kinds of fucked-up bridges. Roads made of Freddo Frogs, actual stairways to heaven, that sort of thing.”
Deacon snorted. “I guess. Sorry to bug you with this. I could have called James.”
“Then I’d have to wonder if you had James dressing up like Loretta Young for you the nights I’m not there and bending over your ping-pong table.” Mark cleared his throat. “I wanna do this part too, Deke. The part where I’m your boyfriend even when we’re not fucking.”
“Thank you,” Deacon said quietly.
“What time are you getting back tomorrow?”
“Maybe six? We’re going out to lunch and then maybe a movie or something.”
“How about meeting me at that hotel on Larmott? The one with the fancy door?”
Holy shit. Deacon’s dick was immediately interested. “Um, it’s a little expensive, don’t you think?”
“Discount rates for Prescott students. I checked. And don’t worry about it.”
“I have to worry about it. We’re college students. We’re supposed to barely be able to afford instant noodles.”
“Well, it’s my allowance, and if I decide I want an Oompa Loompa now, or to buy us a hotel room, I will.”
“You’re really hard to argue with, you know?”
“I do know. So I’ll see you tomorrow night, at the hotel. Whenever you get in.”
“Yes,” Deacon said, suddenly way too excited about this.
“And in the meantime, have fun with your family. This is only day one of Ben being home. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
They hung up. Deacon lay on his bed, trying to imagine what a whole night with Mark, free from the fear of interruption, would be like.
* * * *
“Come on, Mark. You can do this.”
Brandon was looking at him with an odd combination of hope and nervousness Mark remembered from the early days of his mother dating Jim, when she’d tried to “include” Mark. “Jim and I would love to take you to dinner.” “Jim thinks it’s a nice day to go for a drive, if you want to join us.” Knowing that Mark would blow her off, or respond sarcastically, but giving it a go in case this time was different.
“What is the effect of hearing narrative perspectives from outside the Bundren family?”
Mark slumped in his chair and closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”
“Did you read the book?”
“God, Bran. I tried. It was awful. As I Lay Dying is exactly how I felt while I was reading it.”
“Mark, your midterm is Wednesday.”
“You’ve said that five times already.”
“You’ve got to know this stuff.”
Mark checked his phone. “Actually, I have to run. Deacon’s getting here in an hour.”
“No.” Brandon slammed his hand on the table, and Mark jumped. “You are not leaving until you answer this question. Think about the part on page one thirty-three, where they take Addie’s body…” Brandon launched into a detailed account of precisely what happened on page 133.
“Well, yeah, if I had a magic brain, I’d be able to answer the question no problem,” Mark muttered.
“This isn’t a memorization issue. You can look in the book anytime you need to remember details. This is a broader question about narrative style. I’m just giving you an example.”
Mark sighed. “Please, Bran? I promise I’ll study tomorrow night. Deke and I have big plans.” Mark specifically had plans involving the lingerie he’d bought—though he hadn’t told Deacon that. “He’ll worry if I’m late.”
“Give me your phone.”
Mark looked at Brandon suspiciously, then handed it over. The phone beeped as Brandon fiddled with it. “I’ll just shoot Deacon a text… Hi, Deacon, it’s Mark’s friend Brandon,” Brandon read as he typed. “Mark might be a bit late tonight, as he still has to answer a question about Faulkner.” He paused to let his fingers catch up. “It shouldn’t take long, if Mark focuses, but just wanted to let you know. Thanks.” He hit Send and set the phone down.
“You’re a jerk.”
Brandon ignored him and shoved the study guide and a pencil toward him. Mark gave another heavy sigh and took them up. A moment later the phone beeped. Mark perked up, praying Deacon would tell Brandon they really did have important plans that couldn’t be delayed.
“Look at that,” Brandon said, showing Mark the screen.
That’s fine, Brandon. Keep him as long as necessary.
The traitor! Mark glowered from Bran to the book to the study guide, then picked up the pencil and began writing furiously. See if he ever bought Deacon a nice hotel room and wore fancy satin knickers for him again.
And Faulkner? Well, fuck Faulkner. And his stupid mustache.
Unless that was Hemingway.
Definitely not Whitman, though, because his facial hair wasn’t stupid. Whitman had rocked his beard. Also, Whitman would never get in the way of a boy trying to get off with another boy. Bros before prose.
Unfortunately, Brandon wasn’t as cool as Whitman, and he made Mark work for the answer before he let him leave—something about the subjective nature of the narrative. And Mark had used the word “multifaceted” too, which had to be unprecedented. Maybe bullshit like that would be enough to see him pass a quiz or turn in a half-decent paper. Nobody had to know that his first reaction to As I Lay Dying would always be just shut the fuck up and die, then.
Mark raced back to his dorm, collected the bag he’d packed earlier, and headed into town. He checked his watch on the way. He might still beat Deacon to the hotel on Larmott. It was only a short walk from Prescott, which was why Mark had chosen it. Mark could drive, but this part of town was a rabbit’s warren of one-way streets, and confusing enough before you even factored in that whole “Let’s All Drive on the Wrong Side of the Road” thing. And what with the parking situation on campus, the car Jim had given him to use while he was at Prescott was probably parked closer to the hotel than his dorm anyway.
Huh. Mark wondered if he should check on the car at some point, just to make sure it hadn’t been stolen.
Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe in the new year.
The hotel on Larmott was nice. Small and exclusive, if you went for that sort of thing. Which Mark did, courtesy of Jim’s credit card. He booked in at reception, afraid that he’d turn around and see Deacon coming in before he had the chance to get ready.
Bloody Brandon and bloody Faulkner.
He went upstairs.
The room was nice. Not that Mark paid attention to the details. He figured he didn’t have much time before Deacon arrived, and he’d run the last three blocks. He pulled the neck of his shirt out and sniffed it. He wasn’t sweaty exactly—Mark was pretty sure nobody sweat in Pennsylvania—but he didn’t smell clean and fresh. He stripped off and showered quickly, keeping the door open so he could hear Deacon coming in. Worst-case scenario: he’d step out of the shower wearing nothing but a smile. But best-case scenario? Well, he had to hurry.
He dried himself, wrapped a towel around his waist, and shoved his dirty clothes in his backpack. Then he laid the lingerie out on the bed. The blue camisole and knickers. The suspender belt. The gray stockings. Mark wished he had time to savor dressing in them, but he didn’t want Deacon to find him half-dressed. He put on the camisole, adjusting the thin straps so that the front didn’t gape too much. The fabric was soft and whispered against his skin. Then the knickers, and how weird was it to get turned on by the way the satin clung to his erection? Pretty weird, Mark supposed, resisting the urge to palm his cock as he tugged the suspender belt on. He liked the way it sat higher than the knickers. Together they framed a narrow band of skin, one that Mark imagined Deacon touching, licking. His erection pressed against the knickers.
Mark sat on the bed and rolled the stockings on carefully, clipping them to the suspender belt. He padded into the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. He thought that maybe he wouldn’t recognize himself, that maybe he shouldn’t, but there he was. The same Mark as always, only wrapped in lace. He combed his fingers through his unruly damp hair and returned to the main room. He lay on the bed, first on his back, and then rolled over onto his stomach and rested his chin on his folded arms. His cock throbbed underneath him, and he closed his eyes and tried to ignore it. He counted his breaths.
He might have dozed, because he didn’t hear the door. The first thing he heard was Deacon’s voice, low, almost worshipful: “Holy fuck.”
Mark stretched. “Hey, Deke.”
Deacon stood beside the bed. He ran his hand down Mark’s spine, and Mark shivered. Not just from the contact. Deacon’s hand was cold. Fucking Pennsylvania. “You look amazing.”
Mark shifted, rubbing his crotch against the comforter. “What are you gonna do to me?”
“Gonna take my time with you.” Deacon’s voice was thick. He slid his hand down Mark’s right thigh, tugging gently on the suspender. “Did you bring lube?”
“Backpack,” Mark murmured. “I brought lots.”
“Okay.” Deacon inhaled, his breath shaking. “Roll over.”
Satin whispered as Mark obeyed, and the sound made him shiver. His cock throbbed inside the knickers, pushing against the constricting fabric. Wet too. He was already so fucking wet. Deacon climbed onto the bed, still wearing his jeans and his jacket and his boots. Made it seem hotter, somehow, like he couldn’t spare the thirty seconds he needed to get naked. He knelt between Mark’s stockinged legs and pushed them apart. Then he leaned down and covered Mark’s cock with his mouth, breathing through the damp satin. Hot. Wet. Mark almost came from that alone.
“Deke…” He groaned, thrusting his hips forward.
Deacon gripped them, fingers catching in the suspender belt, and pushed him back down onto the mattress. “Not yet. Got the whole night, remember?”
Mark huffed out a strangled laugh. “I’m pretty sure I’m good to go more than once.”
“Maybe I like making you wait,” Deacon said. He mouthed the wet fabric again. “You’re so hard for me.” He straightened up, his face suddenly serious. “If it doesn’t feel good, you’ll tell me to stop, won’t you?”
“Yeah.” Shit. Deacon was really going to do it. A frisson of fear, laced with excitement, ran down his spine. “Um, so you know what you’re doing, right?”
Deacon smiled. “Internet.”
“Right,” Mark said, drawing a deep breath. He tried for a cocky smile. “Where would we be without it?”
Deacon left the bed. He crossed to the bathroom and returned with a towel, shrugging off his jacket on the way. He pushed his sleeves up, and for some reason Mark was struck with the image of a farmer getting ready to put his hand inside a cow. Which was possibly the worst thing he could have thought of at this moment.
Deacon must have noticed his expression. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No. I’m having random thoughts. Quick, distract me.”
Deacon knelt between his legs again and fiddled around with his suspenders. Mark lifted his head but couldn’t be sure what Deacon was doing until he pulled Mark’s blue knickers down, freeing his aching erection, and slid them down his thighs. Oh. He’d refastened the suspenders so that the knickers would come off. Mark wriggled to assist, and soon the knickers were hanging from his left ankle. He would have shaken them off, but Deacon closed his fingers around Mark’s ankle and held them there.
Mark dropped his head back onto the pillow. He could feel the cool air on his cock, and on his exposed ass. Somehow he felt more naked with the stockings and suspender belt than he would have entirely exposed. This was…dirtier.
Deacon held Mark’s ankles, positioning his feet on the mattress so that his legs were spread and his knees were bent. Then he ran his hands up the insides of Mark’s thighs.
“You’re so hot,” Deacon said. “So hot like this. In stockings and lace.”
“Put your fingers in me,” Mark said, afraid he wouldn’t last. “Don’t touch my dick, or I’ll blow.”
Jesus. The sound of Deacon snapping open the lube could almost send him over. Mark closed his eyes as Deacon’s slick fingers circled his hole. Circled and teased and finally pushed in. Two. That was definitely two. Mark shuddered at the burn, even as he accepted it and willed his muscles to relax. Two fingers was nothing.
Deacon teased him with those fingers, pushing them inside, drawing them out, pushing inside again. Mark rocked with the gentle rhythm, his hard cock bouncing against his abdomen and leaving wet trails across his skin.
“I’m serious, Deke. I’ll blow.”
“If you blow, we’ll try again later,” Deacon said, his voice low. “Or maybe I’ll keep going anyway. See if you can reload while I’m fingering you.”
Mark squeezed around Deacon’s fingers. “Bet I could.”
Deacon chuckled. “I’ll bet you could too.”
But Mark didn’t want that. He wanted to hold off until Deacon was all the way inside him. He took a breath and let it out slowly. He opened his eyes and watched Deacon. Deacon was staring at Mark’s arse, a look of utter concentration on his face. He was even biting his lip.
Three fingers, and then four, and Mark took it all. They’d been this far before, without this much care and lube, in the library. Maybe not so deep, though, because this stretch was bigger than any Mark could remember. He bore down, his breath catching in his throat as Deacon hit his prostate. He pressed his shoulders back into the mattress, his hips arching off the bed.
“Okay,” Deacon said, a little breathless. He caught Mark’s gaze. “It’s tight. I don’t know…”
“Do it,” Mark said. He could hardly hear Deacon over the blood pounding in his skull. “Put your fist in me, Deke, please.”
Deacon nodded, swallowed, and began to push.
Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was pain. Real, honest-to-God, no-gammin, losing-your-virginity-in-a-pub-toilet-to-some-guy-called-Mad-Dog pain. Mark’s breath whooshed out of him. He couldn’t even swear. He made some strange high-pitched sound that was almost a whine.
“Mark?” Deacon froze, looking stricken.
“Don’t move,” Mark gasped, blinking away tears. “Don’t move.” It hurt. Fuck, fuck, fuck, it hurt. And then Mark realized he wasn’t just thinking that. He was saying it, over and over again, and Deacon looked like he was going to panic. Mark squeezed his eyes shut. “Need a minute. Gimme a minute.”
“Tell me what to do, Mark,” Deacon said, his voice shaking.
“You in me, Deke?” Mark asked, opening his eyes again.
“No.”
Really? Because holy fuck, it felt like it Deacon’s fist was shoved up his arse, along with something roughly the same size as a 1982 Datsun Bluebird.
“Keep going,” Mark said, gritting his teeth.
“No.” Deacon shook his head.
“Come on, I can take it.” Mark didn’t know why he was saying that when it hurt like all fuck. He wasn’t this brave. This stupid maybe, but not this brave. “Fuck you, I can take it!”
“No.” Deacon eased back. “What are you trying to prove?”
“I dunno.” Mark closed his eyes again. Reached down to stroke his flagging dick back into life, now that the pain had faded. “I never know.”
“Okay,” Deacon said. “You’re so tight. We’ll try another time if you still want to.”
Mark wondered if he should have been angry at himself for failing, or angry at Deacon for being a patronizing dick, but he wasn’t. Not when he was so relieved that it had stopped hurting. And especially not when Deacon still had two fingers inside him and was slowly stroking his prostate. All in all, it was pretty difficult to try and be angry at a bloke who’d do that for you. “We’ll try again?”
“Yeah,” Deacon said, his voice low. “Jesus, Mark. You’re amazing.”
Mark rocked his hips a little and tried not to snort. What was amazing about getting off by being fingered? In other breaking news, water was apparently wet. He opened his eyes again and blinked in the light. “Wanted your hand in me. Wanted you to feel my heartbeat.”
Deacon smiled and leaned forward over Mark. He slid his free hand up along the silky fabric of the camisole and laid it over Mark’s heart. “There it is.”
Romantic fucking idiot. Romeo.
“Can you come from this?” Deacon asked him, hitting Mark’s prostate again.
“Yeah,” Mark said. “More. Please.”
Deacon obliged. Once, twice, and Mark cried out and arched as he came in spurts up his chest. He fell back onto the bed panting. He was oversensitive now he’d come, overstimulated, and over-fucking-whelmed. He tried to speak but couldn’t get the words out. His eyes were stinging and his cheeks were wet, and he didn’t know when that had happened. He was embarrassed it might not have come from the pain, but from the moment Deacon had put his hand over Mark’s heart.
So Deacon wasn’t the only romantic fucking idiot in the room. Who knew?
Deacon wiped Mark clean with the towel. Then he went and washed his hands and came back to bundle Mark up in the comforter.
“I’m okay,” Mark murmured, wrung out, and was surprised to find he was shaking. “You didn’t come yet.”
“We’ve got all night,” Deacon said and put his arms around him. “You okay?”
“Snug as a bug,” Mark mumbled, burrowing into Deacon’s chest.
Deacon kissed him on the top of the head. “You’re incredible.”
Mark smiled and drifted off to sleep.