#if anyone wants to beta read for me or at least be my noble cheerleader who yells at me to get to writing please reach out. i would kiss yo

[presidentbungus]

Marcel has a way of getting things done, no matter what anyone else really wants to do about it. Tavish isn’t all too sure how he ended up here, one of two seated on a luxury private jet, chugging a steady stream of cocktails he’s already forgetting the prissy names of, using up vacation days he hasn’t had since the lawsuit, but every time he looks up at Marcel sitting across from him and slowly poring through a pile of travel magazines it just makes sense.

And well he knew what he was getting himself into in the first place—you can’t really trust a lad with a watch collection, who fancies sunglasses indoors as a slick and appropriate fashion choice, to not want to spring a trip to somewhere stiff and wealthy at nowhere, equator at every feasible opportunity.

What he lacks in natural cuteness the man makes up for in the strange ability to make anything and everything sound like the most important, life-changing thing you’ve ever considered doing. Not to mention all the well I’ll just go on my own, Tavish, another lonely soul adrift in the whirlpool of solitude, Tavish, and you can stay here and keep working since I know that’s more important to you than anything else, anything at all. And so, curse his natural susceptibility to guilt, Tavish found himself here about an hour later, since all his things were conveniently already arranged in a suitcase on his bed. What a surprise.

Something about dating the French. Marcel looks up at him, and slowly outstretches one expertly fitted leather glove across the aisle, sets it down on his hand, and says: "Tavish, mon beau. Look at this."

And then an awkward shuffling-around of the magazine he's holding with only one hand, until Tavish can see a limp page advertising--well, he assumes it's advertising some sort of spa getaway, using a lot of words he doesn't really recognize, and a completely unrelated picture underneath of dolphins turning in the waves. "The Pacific Pearl package," another pertinent tap at a flowery subsection, "one of the highest-reviewed couple's massage experiences on the continent."

'Highest reviewed'. Tavish knows he's talking it up but on the off-chance he's not he decides it's not worth the risk of breaking his poor wee heart. "Mmm. Wow," sucking down something green out of a cocktail glass. Tastes like watermelon. "That sounds great."

And here Marcel's eyebrows pitch just a little bit and oh, here it comes. "Of course, we would have to give up bungee-jumping if we wanted to slot this into the schedule--"

"Nope. Good try." There it is. "Bungee-jumping is non-bloody-negotiable." Tavish sets his glass down on the table so he can point accusingly, since Marcel's still rubbing treacherous circles into his other hand. "You gave me two… experiences to plan," god he hates that word, "and by god, we're stickin' by 'em. And that also goes for--"

"Scuba diving. I'm aware." Marcel wilts, just a little. "With the sharks. And the jellyfish. And the--"

"Anemone, killer minnows, flesh-eating sandskippers, vicious brain-melting amoebas, I know, Marce."

"You need to relax, mon coeur. Not… get your adrenaline pumping out in the wild. That's all I'm getting at."

Tavish sighs. "I can relax and have a little fun repeatedly jumping off cliffs, those two things aren't mutually bloody exclusive. And you," he says, triumphantly, "you gotta live a little. I can't be the only fun one in this relationship. It's stiflin' me growth as a person."

"I'm fun." Marcel rears back, maybe genuinely offended, though of course you can never tell with him. "I'm very fun."

"Well let's prove it, then."

Marcel opens his mouth, and then it flops shut and he leans back against the seat, pulling his hand back and crossing his arms.

It might be a bad time, but Tavish quietly adds: "Thoughts on parasailing?"

"You're on thin ice."

"Understood."