#I'VE GOT ENOUGH TO WRITE I CANNOT ADD MORE. EVEN JUST FOR PERSONAL SATISFACTION. BUT I AM SUFFERING

[whoslaurapalmer]

gotta stop getting into things where i go to read fic and just wind up going 'no!!! you don't get it!!! that's not right!!!!!! no!!!!! none of this is right!!!!!!!' at most of the fic. like i cannot take all this agony

[andswarwrites]

Day 29

The before-last day of posting every day!  I'm thinking about doing this again in June.  Will I be able to find 30K more words to share with anyone who is willing to read it?  Let me take May to recover, and I'll make up my mind midway through the month.  Now today's topic will be: do I qualify as a neat freak?  By comparison the answer is yes, and the answer is also no.  Compared with my husband and child, I am definitely the neat freak in our home, but compared with my mother and my mother-in-law, I cannot hold a candle.

I always prefer my surroundings to be tidy and clean.  Most of the time, when they are untidy, I will go about setting the situation to rights, because I cannot clean a messy space.  It has to be tidied first, then I am able to clean it.  There are some "messes" that do not bother me, however: a stack or two of books here and there, a pile of clothes on a chair in a bedroom.  I absolutely hate having a cluttered dining room table, towels on the floor of the bathroom, in fact anything left on the floor eats away at me.

To coexist happily, I realize my standards are pretty high, but in other areas, S- has standards higher than mine.  For example, in the cleaning of plastic containers and pots and pans, he wants them to come out pristine and with no hint of residue.  I've tried to wash those dishes thoroughly enough, but he often redoes them.  So I usually end up leaving them for him to do, and focus on the dishes I can clean to satisfaction, from glassware to bowls and plates.  Am I the only one who finds utensils are the real chore?

So since S- has higher standards about certain dishes, I don't get offended, I just leave those tasks up to his expertise.  Since I require a tidy home, most of the time, I realize I have to spearhead the effort.  So I have to be the one who reminds everyone to bring their dishes into the kitchen, to clear away the projects that have accumulated here and there, Or even just point out the random stuff that somehow gets scattered around.  I would love if everyone naturally pulled their weight.  And that's why I turn a blind eye to certain things.

I've figured out that as long as my bedroom is a haven of order, I can live with a certain amount of messiness in the rest of the apartment.  Only for a time.  As chaos accumulates, it digs deeper and deeper under my skin until I cannot endure it anymore.  I try to address it before I lose it completely.  I think it is completely fair to ask the members of your household to share the responsibility of keeping the home neat and clean, because it's everyone's home: if you live alone you have to do everything yourself.  Add people to the household, and each additional person should learn to tidy up and clean too.

When N- was little she would spread out her books all over the playroom, as well as her toys, and I tried to teach her to pick them up.  The key word is "tried".  Creating an organizational paradigm and finding the most logical place to put things seems to be in my blood: I think I got it from my mom.  She has excellent spatial reasoning, and I inherited a measure of it.  I haven't given up hope on my husband and daughter, though.  For one thing, S- recently reorganized a whole section of his workspace and he did an excellent job.  He even has pictures to prove it.  And N- is still young.  At her age I was very reluctant about cleaning up and tidying up.

Honestly, though, Mom taught me well.  I was expected to make my bed and keep my room clean.  I still have to make my bed in the morning, it's a prerequisite along with getting out of my pajamas.  I open the curtains and let daylight in, and I go into the kitchen where S- has made me an espresso pot of coffee, all to myself, and I start my day's writing.  I can ignore my surroundings while I'm focused on a task, but by the afternoon I have written all I had to write, taught all I had to teach, and now I can look around and evaluate.

If you visit me and my house is untidy, if my floor is dirty, or worse yet, my bathroom: it all got away from me this week.  Just surviving, being a mother and a wife and a writer, a teacher and a friend, that was enough.  Being the maid just didn't happen, sorry.  I fervently wish it had, because I take pride in keeping my home presentable.  Why is it that you never get surprise visitors when you've got it all under control; it's always that week where it was all too much?

They say cleanliness is next to godliness, and I trust that is true.  The cleaner your home is, the better your state of mind, the healthier you feel.  If you have a little kid, or, plural, little kids, cut yourself a lot of slack.  In fact, until your kid moves out, at least one room in your house is not going to be up to par.  That room being their bedroom.  I was not permitted to have a messy room, but when I stare into that vast wilderness of pigsty that my daughter inhabits, I don't even know where to begin.

That's not quite fair.  N- has a tendency to forget dishes in her room, to leave clothes scattered all over the floor, to resemble her mother by piling books here and there, but I think as she matures, she'll learn to keep her environment clean.  Although what do I know?  Some of us function better in a mess, and some of us (me) prefer order.  It's all about the living space we create for ourselves.  Each year, as we get older, we figure out what we want.  Scented candles? Check.  House plants?  Check.  Bookshelves?  Check and check.  So am I a "neat freak"?  In some ways, I think so.  In other ways, I still have progress to make.

[davosmymaster]

hi! i don’t know if you take requests, so if you don’t, totally ignore this but a) would you ever consider writing a part two to Fallen from Heaven, Grown On Earth? and b) if you take requests, could you write something abt touchstarved steven getting into a relationship with the reader & he’s totally obsessed with them. the reader is kind to marc when he fronts & gives him little touches & soon he’s in love with them too & he feels horrible, but one day he’s so stressed that he confesses & is crying/almost crying? & the reader cares for him & his anxiety & tells him that they love him too & steven is okay with it so long as they share? your current writing rocked my world & i feel like the specific way you characterize these two is perfect, and you could really do this idea justice if you’re up for it

Hello, anon! First of all, there will be part 2, although I cannot guarantee it will be a good one, bc some people are getting expectations and I'm actually getting a bit scared it wil dissapoint. Second, I did get inspired with your request and wrote something (I shouldn't have bc I have no time but I did, I should be sleeping rn, but srly, thank you). I don't know if it's how you liked it or what you expected, and I gave myself the freedom to add a few more things and plot. It's different from what I've done before, but I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you for the ask and all the love <3

TAGS AND WARNINGS - a lot of angst, like a lot, medical procedures (mentioned), blood, not beta read, I did a quick grammar check tho, could be read as poly if you want. Marc-centred.

PAIRINGS - Marc Spector x fem!reader (focus) ; Steven Grant x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 5k.

SUMMARY - Steven gets a girlfriend. Unfortunately for Marc, that also means that he's part of that relationship, in a way. And when you move in, there's no going back.

I'M GETTING TO KNOW SOMEONE

The first time Marc sees you, he wakes up in your lap; and it's unofficial.

It takes him a moment to acknowledge his surroundings, after all he usually wakes up with the sound of Steven's alarm for work, even on motherfucking Sundays. The room is dark and the only source of light comes from a Disney movie playing in front of him. It's not his apartment either, the flat he got Steven in south London looks nothing like the half image he has from that angle.

He's about to jump right out of where he is, confront whoever else is in that room with him, when he feels your hand massaging his scalp, expert fingers knotted in his dark curls. His unmoving muscles relax even more than when he was asleep, somehow, and Marc has to actively retain a moan of satisfaction. Then he remembers.

Yeah, Steven said he was getting to know someone.

Steven had warned him about that. He felt like Marc should know, in case something happened, something like waking up in someone else's house with said person's fingers in his head; or maybe somewhere else. Steven had threatened him with two full-days of work with Donna if he didn't behave and/or ruined it. To be honest, Marc hadn't even paid attention to his rambling; it wasn't like any of Steven's relationships were serious enough, or long enough, for Marc to actually front near his dates. He had heard that speech a thousand times.

So he pretends to be asleep, which isn't difficult being in that situation. You seem so invested in the movie, mindlessly stroking his hair, that you don't notice the change in his breathing or how tense his shoulders got for half a second. Marc could have let Steven front, because the scene is private between him and you and Marc's just a demon getting hold of the body by accident. Plus, he doesn't know you, your face or your name. He only knows that your caresses are putting him to sleep, and that he's so comfortable and warm under the blankets that it takes him less than five minutes to go back to dreamland.

It was the first time someone touched him in a long while, even longer since someone had cuddled with him. He could understand how much Steven longed for affection, because unlike him, Steven never had a proper girlfriend; so it made sense that he got someone who loved touching and cuddling as much as Steven needed it. Marc couldn't complain, even though his conscience told him that what he was doing was slightly wrong.

But then he drifts off again.

The second time is Steven's idea, actually; and it's official.

Marc takes you to a steakhouse in Soho because Steven told him that you wanted to try it some time, and it's the perfect date —without being an actual date— because Steven's vegan but doesn't want you to go on your own or wait for weeks so you can go with your busy girlfriends. So in a way, it's a win-win situation.

It's a bit uncomfortable at the beginning, but you're funny and an excellent story-teller. The conversation revolves around the weather and the only link you both share, Steven; at least at the beginning. Then you mention a horror movie that both of you love and just like that he's invested in the conversation. Marc might not have a lot of time to watch tv, not when Steven is fronting most days and Marc only seems to front to carry out his duties as a masked vigilante for an old Egyptian fossil; but he does love a good horror movie, just like you, and Steven hates them with passion. That's one point for Spector.

After that, it could be said you two see each other often, which is not often enough having as little time fronting as Marc has, but enough to get along really well. Then one day Steven starts acting weird, organizing more and more dates that only include Marc and his own girlfriend —Steven's, not Marc's—, and a month later he finally understands why Steven's been such a damn pain in the ass about getting to know you. They are moving together. The three of them. Unfortunately.

Don't get him wrong, the girl is really nice, like really really nice, like you-have-memorized-how-he-likes-his-coffee-and-you-usually-ask-'coffee or tea?'-to-figure-out-who's-fronting kind of nice. And your conversations are not about Steven anymore, there's no more awkward silences. It could be said that you're friends, to an extent.

The conversation happens one morning. Marc's all happy with his five minutes of consciousness when Steven gets a full-length mirror next to the dining table and starts talking to it.

"I'm summoning you, idiot," he says, squinting at his reflection when Marc doesn't respond the first time he calls his name.

Steven's reflection in the mirro,r —Marc's invisible body— straightens his back and stops squinting, but only Steven can see.

"What do you want, now?" he asks, Marc is usually that friendly with Steven, even now that they get along as if they were actual brothers. "I'm not fixing the sink again, do it yourself," he crosses his arms. "And I'm not Khonshu, you don't summon me."

"First of all, this is not about the bloody sink, you arrogant," Steven says, his nose almost glued to the surface of the mirror. You chuckle behind it. You walk back from the bathroom, take something from the kitchen counter and sit next to Steven, a glass of orange juice in your hands. "Second, we're trying to be nice here, to you. Would be lovely if you were nice for once, you prick." Steven says.

They really do get along. It might not seem like it, but they do have fun with all the name-calling and arguments, you can't help but smile at the idea. It's just their love language.

Marc looks at you through the mirror, at your eyes looking straight at him. You're wearing one of Steven's hawaiian shirts and a short so short that he thinks you're naked for a second, then he realizes that the shirt is simply too big on you and covers it. You cannot actually see him; but you thought that Marc would feel better if you pretended you could.

Either way, he can sense Steven's eyes on him; even when Marc's actually locked somewhere in his own brain and not in the actual mirror. He hopes that Steven doesn't think he was checking you out, because he wasn't, but it's not like he's too worried about it either. Steven knows his girlfriend is a real beauty, and he's not a jealous man.

"Oh, Steven," Marc groans. "Please, please, tell me you didn't get her pregnant."

"Of course I didn't!" he almost shouts, jumping on the chair. "Are you bonkers? "

"Translate for me, darling," you whisper in his ear, still looking at the mirror as if you were asking for context while watching a movie; hoping that Marc doesn't hear. And of course he does. He's not in the fucking mirror, he has explained it a million times.

Marc's aware of the shift in Steven's voice when he talks to you. He mirrors you, whispering back.

"He asked if you're pregnant."

You laugh, hard. Marc feels something in his chest, something he hasn't felt for a long time; so much so, that he cannot quite label it. But Steven's grin while looking at you is so big that he wonders if what he's feeling is a Marc feeling or a Steven feeling. Could be both, though.

"Oh, god, no," you respond, still smiling. "No fucking way, man. You're not having children any time soon."

Steven crosses his arms, a proud grin on his face.

"The banana's well-dressed, cheers."

"Steven, you didn’t call our dick a banana, did you?" Marc squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head.

Steven huffs in responde and turns his body slightly at you, ready to serve as an interpreter, but he makes a weird face at the very last moment, slightly shaking his head. "I'm not translating that."

You take a pill out of the package you got from the kitchen counter, but start laughing again thanks to him, so you leave it back on the table. Steven decides to ask the question from the beginning, so you two can relax.

"We want to move in together," Steven says, he thinks that there's no better way to have this conversation than biting the bullet. "We wanted to check you were okay with it."

Marc doesn't have to think much about the answer.

"Look," he started. "I'm very happy for you two, but I got a really good deal for this apartment and the area is expensive as hell, so we're not selling it, let alone renting it."

Steven translates in a whisper. And this time is your turn to talk.

"We thought that maybe I could move in, here," you say, your anxious fingers squeezing the glass in your hands. Marc can't help but remember the soft touch in his scalp. "We thought that it would be easier to move my things here rather than moving one person," you point at the mirror "and one bookworm hoarder's worth of things," she points at Steven.

Steven turns to look at you as if you had insulted his precious Egyptian gods, which was your intention. Marc just laughs.

"Whose side are you on?" Steven asks.

"I like this woman," he's pointing at you when Steven looks back at the mirror. "I accept her in my house."

"Our house."

Marc rolls his eyes. Steven leans to whisper his acceptance in your ear. Marc rolls his eyes again. He's not in the mirror, he can hear it loud and clear, but he says nothing.

"Yeah, whatever..." he says instead.

You smile, and it's the most beautiful smile he's ever seen. Steven giggles when he turns to you, happy and excited, and you can't help but peck his lips and hug him until it hurts. Marc's just a witness there, a being, little more than a ghost witnessing two people in love. He's smiling, he feels happy and content now that Steven can finally experience true love, just like what he had with Layla and ruined, but the feeling is bittersweet.

"So..." he says once Steven is back. Behind Steven, you take the pill back in your hands, Marc frowns at the sight. "Is there anything I should know now that she's moving?" Marc asks, and before Steven can formulate the question, Marc gestures towards you. You swallow the pill and the orange juice, not even aware of the conversation still unfolding.

"It's just an iron supplement," Steven says, and your body gets rigid as if you had been caught red-handed.

You swallow another mouthful of orange juice and ask Steven for Marc's words. He repeats, one of his hands going up and down your back.

"I have iron deficiency," you respond. "Nothing serious, you know, the usual. If you ever see me blinking like crazy when I get up —and you will— I'm not having a seizure, I swear."

Steven purses his lips and nods profusely. "She does blink a lot, tho."

Sometimes Marc would like to punch his own face. "I know what happens when you get dizzy, Steven."

He simply shrugs. "Thought I'd warn you."

No amount of warning could have prepared him for that.

The first time is three weeks later, there's almost no boxes in the flat anymore, except for the one labeled "that drawer full of useless sh-". It actually said shit before, but someone got rid of it by crossing it out with a red marker. Marc would bet his right hand that it was Steven. 

Another thing you have in common with Marc is that you both swear like sailors.

You're both working on your laptops; you're doing some homework your boss gifted you for the weekend. Usually, you would get stressed and rush to finish it on friday so you can spend the weekend with whoever is fronting —you'd prefer Steven, or so he thinks— but Marc said he'd probably be busy tracking some people down and spending time together is spending time together, so you don't mind working and talking to him at the same time, watching tv or anything else that doesn't require much concentration.

Once you've spent endless hours working on that couch next to Marc, you decide that your ass hurts enough to spend any more time sitting there. You get up suddenly, without thinking, because if you don't do it now you're not sure you'll do it later, and walk two steps before your vision gets clouded with dark spots.

Marc's focused on the maps, on where he's traveling next to arrest —or kill, if it gets ugly— the next big drug dealer, mobster or any other asshole who thinks they can get away with some heavy crime without facing him. He sees you getting up from the couch sensing how your fingers stop their motion in the back of his neck and then vanish into thin air. He wants to groan, but he is in no position for that. He also notices when you get stuck next to the couch as if you'd forgotten your next move.

You blink, twice, that Marc can see, but it's a lot more terrifying than what Steven had said. Marc wouldn't say you blink too much, quite the opposite, you almost don't blink at all. He sees your clouded eyes from where he is and his mind reminds him of a corpse with its eyes wide open. He feels as if someone had stabbed him in the heart with a fork and twisted it.

He calls your name, but doesn't wait for you to answer. He's taking your laptop, barely hanging from your hands, before his mind can process it. He almost throws it to the coffee table. One of his hands grabs you by the waist, he's standing so close that you can smell him, feel his quick breathing falling in your neck. He waits a literal second before he decides you've pushed yourself enough trying not to faint.

"Easy... Sit down, come on," he encourages you, gently pushing you to the couch again while not letting your body lean on anything that is not his own, your elbow in his grip while he holds you. He's almost dragging you to your previous seat.

"I'm fine," you mumble, slowly, and before you hit the couch your vision and strength are back. 

He sees the change, your happy features are there, your eyes are focused again, the faintest tint of red on your face, too. But he still kneels on the floor and says:

"What do I get you? What do you need?"

He looks so worried that you can't help but chuckle. Your hands travel to his face, you cup both his cheeks and Marc feels that something again in his chest. Not the fork, though. You seem to be about to say something very important because the smile has vanished from your face, so he focuses all his attention on you like nothing else exists.

"I need you to get out of my way and let me go to the kitchen," a soft laugh emanating from your lungs. "I'm fine now. We told you this would happen."

He nods, mindlessly at first and profusely after a second, as if trying to convince himself.

"Yeah, yeah... You did," he says.

It still takes him a moment to stand on his feet and step back. His gaze follows you all the way to the kitchen space, though, and then he remembers he's standing in the middle of the living room and he sits down on the couch; but he feels an odd kind of apprehension now that you're out of sight, so he looks at you above his shoulder, once. And you catch him.

"Go back to your business, Spector!"

Grabbing his laptop again, he tries to focus on the maps; but he can't.

The second time is the most horrifying experience of his life, and he's seen some things. Marc's certain that the memory will haunt him to the duat, to the afterlife and he'd be thankful if he can forget it afterwards, whatever comes next. He's beyond thankful Steven wasn't there to witness it.

He's back from a long, exhausting night of being Moon Knight. He's stressed out. He's tired. He's seen people die tonight and has no desire of doing anything other than hit the sack and lose consciousness for a few days. Literally.

Maybe he should stop wishing so hard.

He crosses the front door, careful not to wake you up. It's not even dawn yet. He walks to the bathroom in total darkness, only the moonlight guiding him around his own apartment. He stops for a second to see you asleep over the comforter, the ipad still on, showing the page of an ebook. A small smile appears on his lips. Then he tiptoes to the bathroom.

His t-shirt is full of bullet holes, he can see it when he switches the light on. It's been a rough, long night. He's killed someone, someone who almost killed someone else, but a someone nonetheless. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he notices he has drops of blood on his face. It 's not his.

"Marc?"

"Coming!" he says, cursing under his breath because he doesn't want you to see him covered in other people's blood. He splashes water on his face and rubs. "Stay there! I need a second!" but you don't obey him, he knows you won't.

It takes him longer than a second, but not much longer. He rubs the last drop on his cheek and, when it's finally gone, he hears a heavy thud.

At first he thinks it was his imagination. He calls your name, and eventually sees his own confused face in the mirror when you don't answer. He calls you again, walking through the door frame.

His heart sinks in his chest when he sees you lying on the floor. His stomach takes a violent turn. Before he notices the floor under his feet he's already next to you. You have your eyes closed, your face pale. He has that terrible vision again, with the wide-eyed bodies, but now they are closed, and when his hands get in his field of vision, patting you gently on your cheeks while he calls your name, he sees his hands fiercely trembling.

One second his mind is completely blank, white, empty, he feels out of his own body and he doesn't know what to do. On the next, he tries to calm himself. He's not helping you by freaking out.

It's just a low iron, he thinks. It's just that. She will wake up soon, the hit to the floor is not hard enough, surely it cannot be.

It doesn't help. Not enough for him to feel like everything's spinning around both of you. And certainly not enough to prevent the tears from pricking his eyes. He does the only thing he can do, which is get you on the bed so you can rest, but he feels so weak and he's so afraid of hurting you, that his hand barely touches the back of your head in a desperate attempt at lifting you, and he feels his fingers wet.

He doesn't feel his heart beating anymore, there's only a hollow space where it used to be. He doesn't think he will ever get it back, even less when he sees the fresh blood on the pad of his five fingers.

"No, baby," he whispers the words, he chokes on them. "No, no, no. You can't do this to me."

As if by magic, your eyes start fluttering. Marc's just a witness kneeling there, unable to do anything as he sees you struggle. His mind wanders, half of it panicking in your home, half of it asking how the hell something like that could have happened. Then he looks ahead, trying to find someone or something to blame, and he finds the edge of the bedside table.

Who the hell needs a fucking bedside table? What's so important that you need it next to your head while sleeping? He had once opposed the idea of selling or renting the apartment, now all he wants is to burn it to the ground. The whole damn building if possible.

"Steven..."

He hears your voice calling his alter, whispering, and he swallows what seems to be a rock in his throat. You're calling your boyfriend, he understands that; but he doesn't have the heart to correct you.

"Don't worry, baby," he says, but the words barely make it out of his own vocal chords. "I got you. Just don't fall asleep, okay?"

You're not even half-conscious, Marc knows that because you said Steven's name with your eyes closed; but he cannot just stay silent while you suffer. He tries to reach his phone on the back of his jeans, but once he has it between his fingers and he's already calling A&E, he realizes that he cannot wait for an ambulance. And he has another way, a quicker one, of getting you to the nearest hospital.

It physically hurts him not to touch you, but he has to in order to summon the suit. Once he has it, he carries you in his arms, as gentle as he can. He sees his own tears falling and staining the fabric of your pajama when he lifts you. He had always hoped you never had to see the Moon Knight suit, but he's so pleased that you seem to get at least glimpses of it now that he could cry.

In fact he is crying; sobbing more like, but he doesn't like that word.

An hour later he's sitting next to you in a waiting room, a small and empty one, waiting for the results of an MRI. You have one of those hospital gowns, so he wonders if you're cold; he knows your butt probably is. Then he wonders if the room is not too bright and white for someone who smacked their head against a bedside table and the carpet; but he doesn't say anything because he knows he's probably just freaking out again. He knows he shouldn't be freaking out, you're in good hands. Actually, you're holding his.

He tries to take his mind somewhere else, somewhere nice, but he's seen too much blood in the last twenty-four hours and it's almost impossible. He tries to remember something from his childhood, but that's a no-no too. Shit, that's fucked up, Spector, he tells himself. But he's so used to that old wound that it doesn't hurt anymore.

He remembers the first day he fronted with you, the Disney movie playing was Nemo, obviously the first one, your favorite. Also Steven's. Then he remembers how the doctor asked if he was your boyfriend. He said no, you know, like a dumbass. And technically they shouldn't allow anyone who's not a first-degree relative or a partner in, but the doctor mumbled something about how complicated modern-day couples were and let him through. 

Oh, he had no idea how complicated it was.

"Would you like Steven to front?"

He's the first to talk; suddenly aware that he's not the one you want by your side.

"No, he will freak out."

"Yeah... probably," Marc answers, asking himself how he didn't think about that before.

"You're a drama queen, you know that," you say, your arms crossed over your chest. Is not a question but a claim. You're still holding his hand, even though the angle of your arms crossed and Marc's hand is weird, but it works out and everything else doesn't matter.

Marc has always thought you look beautiful when you get angry, even if you're pretending, but it's twisted that he's thinking that right now, with a hospital gown and three stitches on the back of your head. You go on, because he doesn't say anything.

"You didn't have to bring me here all Moon Knight style."

"You were bleeding," he simply answers.

"They said it's not even serious."

"You could've died." Marc says, his voice emotionless. "...and if they're doing a scan they must have their reasons."

"See?" you say. "You're worse than Goog- auch..."

He turns to look at you so quickly that you wonder if he snapped his neck. You can't help it, a loud laugh fills the room as you touch the stitches. You shouldn't be gesticulating so much.

"Can you stay still for a second?" he asks, it sounds more like a beg, so he repeats it with the right intonation; and you think that Marc has already had enough between your attitude, kicking asses, the hospital, and going home to you passed out on the floor; so you don't say anything else.

"I'm sorry," he says after a second.

"It 's okay, you're right," you agree, your head is starting to throb as they didn't give you a high dose of painkillers, in case you fell asleep. "I'm not getting out of bed ever again."

Marc sighs, pleased that you're not playing with his nerves anymore. His hand squeezes yours, it's a gentle and short squeeze, but enough to calm him.

"I'm not letting you out of bed ever again."

The scans are perfect, it was all just a scare. Albeit one Marc will never forget in his life. Both of you get home and he has no idea why he's silently crying again. He can feel a tear falling down his face while he opens the door, so instead of waiting for you to cross first as he usually does, he walks in first and walks to the bathroom again. Not without taking a glimpse of where you fell, thanking his own egyptian god and all the others that there's no blood to clean. Not visible from where he stood, at least.

His chest is tight and he's soon crying his heart out on the bathroom floor. He tries not to sob, muffling the sound with the palm of his hand while covering his mouth; but you hear a faint hiccup coming from the bathroom. Now it's your time to call for him, and he doesn't answer, he can’t.

"Marc?" you ask, slowly opening the door. Then you see him crying on the floor, his knees to his chest and his hands now covering his whole face. "Oh, baby, no. Don't do that."

You get on the floor next to him a second later, ignoring the throb in the back of your head.

"I'm sorry," he says, even if it takes him a few tries. You hug him as tight as you can, until it hurts in your ribs. It's almost physically painful to witness the image of Marc Spector crying, you can barely hold back your own tears. After all, you've never seen him cry before. And there he is now, having a meltdown on the floor, holding on to you as if you were his anchor, the only thing keeping his feet on the ground, his head above water.

"Don't say sorry, babe. I did scare you, didn't I?" you say, and stroke his hair the way you know he likes it.

"I love you so much," he said, then he covers his face again, as if he was embarrassed he said that. He runs his hands through his short black hair, his eyes blood-shot, his fingers trembling. "I just love you so much, and I was scared I'd never be able to say it. I've spent such a long time, such a long time, waiting for it to pass because- Steven... he doesn't deserve that."

"That's why you're crying?"

Marc looks at you confused, his whole face red as blood itself, his lashes wet with tears. Your fun tone is usually music to his ears, but not now. Now he's just confused.

"No- I mean... It's... part of it, yeah..." he says, then he frowns. "What?"

"Marc we've known for a while," you say, taking his hands in yours.

"What?"

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" you draw circles with your thumbs in his palms. Then you chuckle. "Did you really think Steven wouldn't notice?"

"You both knew?"

You smile, because it's the only thing you can do, that, and shaking your head.

"Marc, Steven loves you, he would never not let you be happy," you say, now sitting next to him on the floor. You hit his knee with your own, gently, joking. "And how could I not love you, too? You're Marc, my Marc. I'd do anything for you. I love you both. Steven and I, we were just hoping you'd accept it soon enough; but it took you a while."

You watch him attentively, he's not crying anymore, but he has that look in his face like he can't believe what he's hearing. He feels that sensation in his chest, again. He tries to follow it, to touch it with his own hands, and he finds out he has his palm over his heart. It 's love. He never thought he'd ever feel alive again, let alone feeling love, but there it is, beating under his muscles and tissues and whatever else.

You pull from one of his curls, jokingly. Not to hurt him, not to take his attention, but because you know he likes it when you play with his hair. The curl rolls around your pinky. You literally have him wrapped around your finger; you've had him for a while.

"He's okay with it?" Marc asks. "You're okay with it?"

"We're more than okay with it, babe," you say, then you smile with pursed lips. "Sorry, it seems like you're stuck with us, now."

He could weep with joy.

And so he does.

[pluvillion]

record store - AU - in which a scotsman and a british meet in one small place with the same interest. -

note: while i write stuff for myself personally, i have no clue how to share them online. i don't have anything fancy to add here other than a preface.

this is the first fanfiction i've written from my early years as a teenager that i saved in my documents and never looked at it again. recently i've been wanting to reopen them, rewrite everything, and share it with the public.

i'm a bit nervous about my first entry. please let me know what you think!

-

johnny always noticed him. how could he not?

the bells at the front of the door always signalled his entrance when he walked in, and johnny’s eyes always automatically darted up from his book or his phone, smiling slightly whenever he saw him.

he didn’t know his name, but he knew him so well.

he knew how he always had a cup of coffee in his hand in the winter months, and the markings on the cup would be the same as the ones on his table.

he knew how he liked coming alone because despite the endless notifications that kept vibrating from his phone, the record shop was a special place for him and he never picked up any calls until he was out the door.

he knew his favourite albums, his fingers tracing the same worn copies in the back that he so loved.

he knew his favourite songs; johnny played them on the speakers whenever he came in and he’d always get that small twang of satisfaction and happiness when he’d see the customer look up and smile slightly, tapping his foot to the beat of his favourite song as he walked along the aisles.

johnny knew his wish to play the guitar from the way he stared longingly at the acoustic guitars hanging on the wall in the back, and how his eyes lingered on the beginner’s books for learning how to play the guitar, blushing furiously when his coworker asked him if he needed any help.

johnny knew all these things about him — small pieces of the guy who captured his attention with his bright eyes and pursed lips that he dreamed about — but he didn’t know his name.

he tried to work up the courage to talk to him on multiple occasions — practicing what he would say to him, how he’d sweep him off his feet with his knowledge of the newest album that came out from the band they both liked, even if johnny knew he was twice his size — but his words died on his tongue every time and the customer always left before he could steer himself to try again, the bells that he looked forward to when they signalled his entrance suddenly echoing his failures when he left.

“next time,” he’d always tell himself, but there’s that creeping fear at the back of his mind that one day he wouldn’t come back to the little record store he worked at every day… or worse, that one day the customer would stroll into the store with another person on his arms who got all his favourite bands wrong and scrunched up his nose in distaste when he played one of his favourite songs on the speakers.

johnny knew that he couldn’t just pine after him from behind the counter — at the very worst, he would turn johnny down or think of him as a loser and he’ll get over him.

and at best? well… johnny has had enough idle daydreams about that.

he’s afraid to come up to the customer, to give him more than a feeble “have a good day!” after johnny checks out the albums he places in front of the cash register, because he’s nothing but a boy with a minimum wage job and a tacky nametag — hardly attractive, and he’s sure his nervous stutters wouldn’t make things any better, especially how he’s a scotsman.

he’s certain he’ll make a fool of himself; that he’d probably end up scaring the customer off from the shop forever…

…but there’s something in his eyes and the way they glitter when he walks in that johnny cannot keep away from.

-

he’s even lovelier up close.

johnny is not sure how he managed to pluck up the courage to come up to the customer, but whatever courage he had was used up in the steps from the counter to him.

he admires the way the customer brushes his blonde hair and the way his fingers trace the records with such a delicate touch; how focused he is with the names of the bands and songs that johnny’s certain he’s read a thousand times before.

but then he notices johnny next to him, and he gives a little jump when he realizes someone’s there; a faint blush blossoming the scot’s cheeks.

johnny opens his mouth, but no words come out — he’s certain he looks like a creep with his wide eyes and unspeaking mouth, looking up at him. he can already feel the embarrassment and humiliation creeping into his veins, and it takes everything in him not to turn the other way and dash into the storage room until the customer left.

“hi… uh, i’m… uh…” he stutters. “i’m john.”

he juts out his hand mechanically, almost comedic as he extends his veiny arm towards him.

johnny’s already mentally berating himself for being such a doofus and giving the customer a hand to shake — who does that these days? — but it’s too late to pull it back and he’s left standing there, awkwardly holding out his hand to him like some kind of a dog.

the customer finds it charmingly adorable, a small smile emerging on his lips at the clearly-nervous boy in front of him.

he takes his hand and gives it a little shake, beaming as he introduces himself.

“simon,” he starts. “i’m simon.”

johnny’s too mesmerized by the way simon’s voice says his name — obviously british — and the smoothness of his big palm against his that he almost misses his name.

but when he shakes his head a little and backtracks a few seconds to remember, johnny thinks that simon’s beautiful name is a perfect fit for his lovely smile.

it’s the one he won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

there’s a moment of awkward silence before johnny finds his voice again, though it comes out a little higher due to his nervousness.

“so, um, you like bands, right?”

he’s already screaming internally at his stupidity the moment the words leave his lips.

“stupid, stupid, stupid john — OF COURSE he likes bands, he’s at your stupid music shop on a weekly basis you idiot!”

but simon smiles and tells him about how he was actually starting to get into this new band, STARSET, that he discovered a few days ago.

johnny’s eyes light up a little at the mention of the band — he’s been following them since dustin bates, the band’s lead, was still performing for Downplay, his previous band — and he’s thrilled that simon likes them too.

he’s spitting out albums, tour dates, and his experiences with a concert he went to not long ago at some big venue. he’s giving him song suggestions of his favourites sprinkled with some facts about the music he’s sure simon doesn’t care about.

johnny’s rambling again. he stops the moment he realizes he is; cutting his sentence short.

simon’s watching him with amused eyes; grinning at the shorter mohawked boy whose blue eyes seem to sparkle with enthusiasm and passion, hands waving into large, wild gestures to explain his point.

johnny’s abrupt stop catches simon by surprise — the flushing patches of red on his cheeks tell him why.

“no, go on. tell me more.”

simon’s words are soft and encouraging but johnny’s are a mutter when they leave his lips; refusing to meet the brit’s eyes in embarrassment.

“no, you don’t really want to know about all that,” johnny frowns. “i’m sorry, i just got a bit carried away and i-i ramble a bit– a lot. sorry.”

he’s playing around with his shoes and slumping over — making him even shorter in that form — and simon didn’t have to see his face to guess the blush that would undeniably be on his cheeks.

“i do. i promise,” simon reassures. “what album would you recommend?”

and johnny’s eyes slowly lift towards simon’s; a small smile on his lips as he begins to talk again.

slowly, johnny’s gestures become more animated and his words become more lively until the both of them are laughing and sharing vivid stories while the other listens with wide eyes and enthusiastic nods.

they barely realize how much time has passed until another co-worker call johnny to start closing up.

they were both rattled out of the little world of music and conversation that they build around them, and johnny’s eyes are tinted with sadness when they look at simon again after he tells his co-worker he’ll be right on it.

“the shop’s closing so… i guess you should be leaving.”

“yeah. it was nice talking to you, johnny.”

simon is turning around to leave when johnny calls out his name; stopping him in his tracks. he turns back to him and he’s frozen in his spot, taken aback by him once again.

“it’s becoming a habit,” he thinks.

he manages to spit them out.

“i… uh… i was wondering if… um… you wanted to… erm… er… wanted to learn how to play the guitar?”

his words are stuttering at first before they all tumble out of his lips like a waterfall - the last half of his sentence coming out of his mouth like scrabble pieces.

but simon catches all of his nervous words and he unravels them patiently with a smile.

“i’ve been meaning to learn for a while, actually.”

“do you… do you want me to teach you?”

his smile is hopeful. his chin scar moving up with his mouth.

“are you any good?”

“i mean, i guess i’m alright?” he was uncertain with his words. “i can play, well, a few of my favourite songs and uh, i wrote a few songs too. but they’re just simple stuff but i suppose you could say i’m rather decent at it, i mean–”

simon laughs a little at his nervous rant; finding it adorable how he scrunches up his nose and pinches his eyebrows when he begins to consider his skills seriously.

“hey, i’m just kidding. i’d love to learn from you. i’m sure you’re amazing.”

johnny whole figure lights up with the biggest smile at simon’s words; eyes glimmering with disbelief and excitement.

“really?”

“of course,” he gestures johnny to him. “come here. do you have a pen?”

“yep, hold on for a moment,” johnny runs back to the counter and grabs a black pen from his table.

he shuffles towards simon and simon hastily scrawls his phone number on johnny’s arm; running over the veins and muscles of his forearm and leaving little bumps in his neat number.

“call me sometime? we can work out a lesson plan and all that over coffee or something.”

johnny’s positively giddy at the thought of coffee with simon — his cup with the same markings as his — and the ink that marks his skin feels a lot like a promise.

“sure thing. it’s a date.”

the words slip out of johnny’s mouth before he can think it through and he blushes furiously at the realization of what he just implied.

but like always, simon grinned at him as he handed back the pen; laughing slightly at the red blush that stands prominent on his skin.

“a date it is then! i can’t wait.”

simon says a quick goodbye and he leaves before johnny can say another word - the familiar bells jingling as they signalled his absence yet again.

johnny is still standing, dazed at simon’s casual words and easy smile.

“a date.”

he’s not sure how he managed to get a date with his overenthusiastic ramblings, awkward sentences, and overall dorkiness, but perhaps that is what simon liked the most about him.

the smile lingers on johnny long after simon leaves; the thought of his eyes and the prospect of a “date” is enough to make him dance a little victory shuffle as he sweeps the floor to the beat of the song the two of them loved.

end.