marcus keane (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
exorkismos) wrote2019-01-08 08:27 pm
exorkismos) wrote2019-01-08 08:27 pm
@success_story
Because Tim is Tim, it’s not long before let’s go out more turns into a whole schedule. It’s not presented to Marcus in colour-coded calendar form, but that’s how he visualises it privately. It’s strict and endearing, and when it occasionally gets disturbed by some unexpected occurrence everything feels off. That’s the downside of Tim’s ability to organise: when what he’s orchestrating falls through, it always causes a shockwave.
The upside is that Marcus feels better than he has in months. His ribs feel fine unless he gets too out of breath, and even that’s improving. In less than two months, God willing, he’ll be free of the the expensive thoracic specialist that Tim found. Going out means he moves (going out means, more often than not, exhausting sex, which he mentally counts when his doctor asks him if he’s exercising and he answers yeah, plenty).
Simon’s gotten over the brief period of chilly outrage which followed Marcus explaining himself. For a few days, Marcus felt sick and guilty and sure he’d ruined any chance that they could be friends on honest terms — until Simon had called up and told him he had a parishioner who’d asked for a word. You should talk to her, Simon had said, I think you could help. Metal-taste in the mouth, dizzy, thinking not here, not now, Marcus had nonetheless come in to talk to Simon in his cluttered parish office. But the young woman sitting with him hadn’t been possessed. She’d wanted to know if she was allowed to be bisexual and a Catholic. So he’s been busy trying to sort things with her. Help her out. Lots of coffee, lots of God loves you, lots of acting like he’s got his own stuff sorted, because she seems to think he does.
He’s a little late coming back from buying her a burger and telling her she’s going to be fine. It’s the last Thursday of the month, which means it’s his turn to pick where they go. Everything’s according to plan.
Until he unlocks the door and comes in and Jason’s there, sprawled happily on the couch beside Tim.
Marcus raises his eyebrows and drops his bag. “You coming out too, then?” he says, not really sure if he’s joking or not.
Not, as it turns out.
They end up trying somewhere new. It’s a little too pricey for Marcus’ taste and a little too cheap for Tim’s, with low leather sofas in an alcove where the music’s quieter, and floorspace for dancing where it’s loud. And it’s a gay bar — slightly older crowd, craft beers, flyers advertising that Tuesday is Bear Night. Tuesdays are usually not a good day. Marcus sneaks a look at the flyer and wonders about asking Tim to rearrange the schedule.
It’s Marcus’ round, though it’s Tim’s money. On his way back from the bar he charts a few looks, notices whose eyes go to Tim and who’s looking at Jason. He notices, too, the couples who only have eyes for each other, a little warmed by the sight. It feels good, being here, in a way he’s surprised about, because really it’s just an okay bar, but —
But it’s good being here. It's nice to be around people like him. It’s nice to be around Tim and Jason together. Jason, inexplicably, isn’t a third wheel. Or maybe he is, but — hey — something about extra stability — Marcus has had a few drinks.
“Shove over, love,” he tells Tim, coming to sit beside him, sliding drinks along the table. Happy warmth infuses his voice. His hand settles easily above Tim’s knee. Squeezing, fake reprimand, as he gets comfortable: “Dunno how you take up so much room, slip of a thing like you.”
What were they talking about, before Marcus went to fetch more drinks? Something lost under the buzz of music, the strange elation in his chest, the slight haze of alcohol. He leans over Tim a little bit so Jason can hear when he says, “How many of these til you start dancing, huh? Both of you.”
The upside is that Marcus feels better than he has in months. His ribs feel fine unless he gets too out of breath, and even that’s improving. In less than two months, God willing, he’ll be free of the the expensive thoracic specialist that Tim found. Going out means he moves (going out means, more often than not, exhausting sex, which he mentally counts when his doctor asks him if he’s exercising and he answers yeah, plenty).
Simon’s gotten over the brief period of chilly outrage which followed Marcus explaining himself. For a few days, Marcus felt sick and guilty and sure he’d ruined any chance that they could be friends on honest terms — until Simon had called up and told him he had a parishioner who’d asked for a word. You should talk to her, Simon had said, I think you could help. Metal-taste in the mouth, dizzy, thinking not here, not now, Marcus had nonetheless come in to talk to Simon in his cluttered parish office. But the young woman sitting with him hadn’t been possessed. She’d wanted to know if she was allowed to be bisexual and a Catholic. So he’s been busy trying to sort things with her. Help her out. Lots of coffee, lots of God loves you, lots of acting like he’s got his own stuff sorted, because she seems to think he does.
He’s a little late coming back from buying her a burger and telling her she’s going to be fine. It’s the last Thursday of the month, which means it’s his turn to pick where they go. Everything’s according to plan.
Until he unlocks the door and comes in and Jason’s there, sprawled happily on the couch beside Tim.
Marcus raises his eyebrows and drops his bag. “You coming out too, then?” he says, not really sure if he’s joking or not.
Not, as it turns out.
They end up trying somewhere new. It’s a little too pricey for Marcus’ taste and a little too cheap for Tim’s, with low leather sofas in an alcove where the music’s quieter, and floorspace for dancing where it’s loud. And it’s a gay bar — slightly older crowd, craft beers, flyers advertising that Tuesday is Bear Night. Tuesdays are usually not a good day. Marcus sneaks a look at the flyer and wonders about asking Tim to rearrange the schedule.
It’s Marcus’ round, though it’s Tim’s money. On his way back from the bar he charts a few looks, notices whose eyes go to Tim and who’s looking at Jason. He notices, too, the couples who only have eyes for each other, a little warmed by the sight. It feels good, being here, in a way he’s surprised about, because really it’s just an okay bar, but —
But it’s good being here. It's nice to be around people like him. It’s nice to be around Tim and Jason together. Jason, inexplicably, isn’t a third wheel. Or maybe he is, but — hey — something about extra stability — Marcus has had a few drinks.
“Shove over, love,” he tells Tim, coming to sit beside him, sliding drinks along the table. Happy warmth infuses his voice. His hand settles easily above Tim’s knee. Squeezing, fake reprimand, as he gets comfortable: “Dunno how you take up so much room, slip of a thing like you.”
What were they talking about, before Marcus went to fetch more drinks? Something lost under the buzz of music, the strange elation in his chest, the slight haze of alcohol. He leans over Tim a little bit so Jason can hear when he says, “How many of these til you start dancing, huh? Both of you.”