CHAPTER TEN
Wednesday dawns bright but cold, and Elliot bundles himself into a jacket as he heads out to drive Sammy to school. There’s a frenetic energy coursing through his veins, making him jumpy and scattered, his half of any conversation meandering vaguely. Sammy gives him odd looks, but doesn’t question it. It’s just his dad being weird again.
Elliot doesn’t see Mark at the school—which he’s weirdly grateful for—and in the hour he needs to kill before this meeting, he sits in a Starbucks and answers some horrendously overdue work emails on his phone. It’s a wonder he’s even still got clients, what with how distracted he’s been lately.
He checks the time what he thinks is every fifteen minutes, but only about thirty seconds seem to pass each time. It’s a long hour.
Eventually, he gives up waiting and pretending he’s being productive, and takes the short stroll down to Geoff’s. He’ll be early, but Mark doesn’t need to know that.
Geoff’s has to be one of his favorite places in town—an old coffee shop full of squashy worn couches and solid wood tables, every inch of wall space covered by the works of local artists, and Geoff himself always behind the counter, old and greying, always ready with a smile and a sympathetic ear. Elliot pauses at the counter to consider his option, waiting in line behind a young woman carrying a briefcase—then realizes he doesn’t have to. Mark’s already here, coffee waiting.
He’s sat on a sofa in the far corner, staring down at his phone in a vacant sort of manner, his red Henley sitting pretty against that golden tan and his knee bouncing up and down, showing his nerves. He looks nice—like, even nicer than normal. Like he’s made an effort. Elliot swallows and heads over to him.
“Hey.”
Mark looks up, blinks, and Elliot adds, completely asininely, “Thanks for meeting me.” For god’s sake. It’s not a fucking job interview.
Mark smiles anyway. “I got you a coffee,” he says, gesturing at the mugs. Then he shifts to the side on the couch, clearly expecting Elliot to sit beside him.
Elliot does, tentatively, removing his jacket as he does so. There’s maybe half a cushion’s worth of space between them, but it might as well be nothing at all for how hyper-aware Elliot is of the proximity.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Mark beats him to it. “Listen, I’m so sorry,” he says, and Elliot pauses midway to retrieving his coffee, something heavy already sinking in his gut. That apology sounds miserable, and anything miserable is nothing good, not in this situation. He holds his breath as Mark carries on.
“About everything. What I did. What I said after. About it not being a mistake.”
Ouch. Fucking ouch.
“I’ve put you in the worst position,” Mark continues. “But listen, you don’t have to worry, all right? You don’t need to, like…let me down gently or whatever. We can just brush it all under the rug.”
Humiliation burns hot and hard all through Elliot’s body. He’s spent the past few days daydreaming about romance; meanwhile, Mark’s been thinking about how to make it all go away. Elliot resists the urge to get up and bolt away, because beneath the burning embarrassment, an ember of anger sparks to life.
Mark kissed him. And then he made Elliot think he fucking meant it.
“I see.”
“Yeah, man,” Mark says, nodding, oblivious. “I care more about fucking up this friendship than getting my feelings hurt. So let’s just—let’s just forget it. Yeah? Please.”
Right. Of course. Of course. Mark’s got every right to reject him, but he doesn’t get to frame it like he’s giving Elliot an out.
“If that’s how you want it,” Elliot says, tone flat.
Mark blinks at him. “What?”
“I said fine, if that’s what you want.”
Mark, after staring at him for a moment, says, “You’re angry with me.”
Elliot doesn’t answer. He’s not angry exactly, but there’s definitely a bitterness in him, no doubt fueled by humiliation. Mark doesn’t owe him anything, but Elliot prefers his rejection straight up. This—this tiptoeing around like it’s all for his benefit is leaving him raw.
“You’re well within your rights to never speak to me again,” Mark mumbles, all dejected and sad. “I just—lunged at you, and then I didn’t even bother to explain myself afterwards. I just let you leave. I was a fucking coward.”
Despite himself, Elliot feels a pang of sympathy. He sighs, sits back in the couch, letting his frame relax a little. He guesses the worst is over now.
“I don’t think you’re a coward,” he says, and Mark is too fucking endearing when his face transforms to something like cautious hope. Hope that Elliot isn’t too pissed at him.
“You don’t?”
Right, okay, so they’re doing this. Elliot’s just been knocked back, and yet it’s Mark who’s gonna get the comfort. Strangely, Elliot still kinda wants to give it to him. “To put yourself out there like that?” he says. “Without knowing what kind of response you’d get? That’s extremely brave.”
Mark tuts, self-deprecating. “I wish I could agree, but the truth is, I didn’t even think about it. It just happened.” He pauses, a stain of pale pink highlighting the tops of his cheekbones. He looks down when he says, “I couldn’t…I couldn’t help myself.” And before now a sentence like that would have Elliot soaring, but now he knows different. He sighs again, feeling stupidly sorry for himself, then sits forward to grab his forgotten coffee.
“I didn’t even know you were into guys,” he murmurs, even if he’s still not entirely sure if Mark even is.
“I guess, I don’t know…” Mark’s face scrunches his up, sounding not entirely sure when he says, “I’m bi maybe?” Then he pauses, fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “There’s only been one other guy I’ve ever thought about in—in that way. We fooled around a bit. Nothing major.”
One guy he’s fooled around with. One guy. Fooled around. Not slept with. Not dated.
Elliot can’t help himself.
“So you’ve never…”
“No,” Mark says quickly, flushing darker now, the red spreading down his throat.
Elliot’s groin goes suddenly, incredibly tight.
“No, I haven’t,” Mark clarifies. “There’s never been—hi.” He’s interrupted by a duo of college-age ladies, both excited and holding out napkins and pens, jabbering on about being big fans oh my god.
Mark signs their napkins, smiles a lot, chats a bit, and poses for a couple pictures. Elliot sits to the side, unnoticed, and in the brief reprieve, his mind wanders. Heads back over the conversation they’ve had so far—and this time, without the cloud of humiliation blurring everything together, he can pick out certain phrases that maybe he should’ve heard a bit better the first time.
I’ve put you in the worst position…
You don’t need to, like…let me down gently or whatever…
I care more about fucking up this friendship than getting my feelings hurt…
There’s only been one other guy I’ve ever thought about in that way…
Elliot realized Mark was trying to give him an out, sure, but he was so lost to the embarrassment that he didn’t fully understand. Mark isn’t rejecting him here, coming up with gentle excuses to soften the blow to Elliot’s ego. He’s rejecting himself. He’s come up with some bullshit out for Elliot because he thinks that’s what Elliot wants.
He came here today expecting Elliot to reject him. And he’s decided to do the work for him. At some point in the last few days, he’s apparently managed to convince himself that this is the way Elliot wants it to go.
Confusion and vulnerability—two powerful demons that when combined, make the brain trip over logic and fall face first into pure, overwhelming doubt. It doesn’t matter that Elliot’s the one who asked for this chat. It doesn’t matter that Elliot was clearly open and inviting, that morning in Mark’s front yard. It doesn’t matter, because now Mark’s fueled by doubt, and now he’s working on self-preservation.
It’s not over. No one’s being rejected. Elliot swallows down a surge of hot anticipation and waits for the fans to leave. When they do, when Mark sits down again and gives him an apologetic smile, Elliot waits. Watches Mark rearrange himself on the couch, take a sip of his coffee. “Sorry about that,” Mark says.
Elliot doesn’t care about the fans, but he is curious about one thing.
“So I’m assuming you’re not out,” he comments, assuming Mark is sure about the bisexuality thing. Which, Elliot’s pretty sure, he isn’t. Fuck knows how many years it’s been since that other guy, and he wouldn’t be the first dude to experiment.
But Mark answers seriously, without a hint of discomfort. “No. It’s not a conscience thing. I’ve just never…”
“It’s okay,” says Elliot quickly. He didn’t mean to back Mark into a corner, even though he’s fully aware that’s exactly what he’s doing when he adds, “Would it be a problem, coming out? If you ever had reason to.” He keeps his tone light and careful, not showing his hand yet. There are certain factors to consider here. Elliot’s not interested in being anyone’s dirty little secret.
“Not now,” Mark says. “Back during my ball career, maybe. I don’t know…”
They fall quiet, and they stare at each other. Mark’s eyebrows tip down a little, like maybe he’s getting an inkling that there’s a specific purpose to this conversation. More confusion for him, which Elliot doesn’t want to add to, so it’s probably time to stop beating around the bush—so to speak. Cards on the table. It’s the only fucking way they’ll ever get anywhere.
“But not now,” Elliot clarifies, and in response, Mark’s throat rolls with a slow, dry swallow, like maybe he’s picking up the thread now. That beautiful blush is returning, and in the face of it, Elliot gathers his balls.
“I don’t want to forget about it,” he says, making a concerted effort to hold Mark’s eye contact. It’s almost impossible—the weight of his own vulnerability still filling him with that fight-or-flight response, flight always—always—edging ahead. “The kiss. I don’t want to forget about it.”
Mark’s lips part, a soft breath escaping him. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes blaze, and there’s a raw expression on his face that tells Elliot they’re finally, finally, on the same fucking page. God, if he’s reading the signals wrong this time…
“But,” he says, when it looks as though Mark’s gearing himself up for words, “neither do I want to feel like I’m pushing a confused guy into something he’s not really sure about. I’m too old for that now.”
Mark responds immediately, without hesitation, and maybe Elliot’s overestimated the caution involved here because Mark doesn’t even try to hide the relief lacing his breathy words. “What if that guy wasn’t confused,” he says rapidly, shifting forward on the couch slightly, towards Elliot, like a magnet pulling him in. “What if he was really sure about what he wanted right now.” His gaze darts around Elliot’s face, taking him in, hovering for a long moment on his mouth and then back to his eyes. His own eyes are sparking, bright and open. Elliot’s ribs feel like they might crack under the force of his heart.
He licks his lips. “What would that be?”
Mark pauses, hesitates. Then he shifts even closer on the couch, the heat of him enveloping them both, his voice dropping low and thick and his eyes darkening.
“What if that guy really wanted to kiss you again?”
There are a lot of things Elliot could say to that, a lot of things he wants to say—and, even more thrilling, a lot of things he could do. Like grab this man by the collar and haul him outside, into a car, back to his house and into his bed. Or even just a kiss, like suggested, something soft and light and full of promise, maybe not here in the open, but close by, out in the cold, so they can warm each other up.
Any thought he has right now would be welcome, he’s pretty fucking sure, but there’s a loud, annoying part of him that’s screaming for him to do it right. To treat this with respect. So, discreetly, subtly, he reaches out a little and brushes his knuckles against the back of Mark’s hand, watches Mark’s chest hitch with a caught breath. And he says, “Do you want to go to the movies sometime?”
Mark’s grinning face blazes brighter than the goddamn sun.