Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Marvin drains the first beer in almost a minute flat, desperate to get the echo of eleven loud, shrill-pitched voices out of his brain before it eventually develops further into a headache. Jesus, he was lucky that the stadium was only in the next town over—the four hours trapped on a bus with sweaty, squeaky-voiced Jewish boys still being terrible, but any minute longer than that, and Marvin would have started drinking then instead of sneaking off after checking into the hotel and “turning in for the night.”

And it’s all for some stupid baseball game—not an art museum or science expedition or theater production (you know, something educational that would actually be worth the money and missing work days). Bitterly, Marvin can’t help but think of Trina and Mendel enjoying their peaceful day at home, probably drinking champagne and laughing evilly about how they suckered him into chaperoning Jason’s little league team for some “father-son bonding." 

Yeah right. So far, Jason has sat as far away from him as possible and looks embarrassed any time that it’s even mentioned Marvin is his dad. Great bonding time, Trina, so glad you guilt-tripped me into it.

It’s only the first day of the weekend-long trip, and Marvin is already over it.

He nurses his second beer slowly and flickers his gaze around the low-lit bar, trying not to linger too long at the jawline of one man or the slope of another’s ass. Even though it’s been two years since his divorce—two years since he stopped with the lying and suffocating self-repression, Marvin still gets nervous about being here, about being noticed and identified as something that he tried for years to suppress. He still remembers high school, with the taunt fag being a slap to the face and getting shoved into a locker when he got caught looking at a cute boy’s ass during homeroom. 

The memories make Marvin hurriedly avoid all eye contact and stare down at his beer, tensed and terrified and suddenly feeling like he’s fifteen-years-old all over again.

But a distraction would be nice, after all. A pretty little thing to help Marvin edge out the headache, loosen the tension coiled in his shoulders, make him just forget everything except the slapping of skin and release of pressure.

He’s picked up guys before, but it never gets any easier. It’s always stilted, awkward. And if Marvin didn’t look so rich and have at least a pretty decent face, he’s sure he’d barely get through the torturous small talk before the your place or mine?

He polishes off his second beer for some liquid courage and finally spots someone worth the effort.

He’s just Marvin’s type—with a fit, lithe body and soft-looking hair and a dangerous smile easily interchangeable with a sneer. He’s seated at one of the bar stools by himself, sipping on one of those fruity cocktails that change the color of your tongue and make your mouth taste of sugar. And Marvin feels a want deep in his bones, the desire coiling hot and tight in the bottom of his stomach. 

Shaking his nerves, he walks over and plops down in the seat directly beside him, ignoring the man’s critical raise of eyebrow and ordering himself another drink. Marvin refuses to meet the other’s expectant gaze and tries not to feel bereft by the man’s clear exasperation.

"Let me guess,” The man drawls out, arrogant and scathing, “You’re in town for the game, right?”

The question throws Marvin off, so much so that he abandons his plan to play it aloof and look at him, “How’d you know?”

“All those empty bar stools,” The man gestures with a slow loop of his finger, “And you chose the one directly next to me.” The explanation doesn’t really make that much sense, and Marvin feels his confusion clear on his face.

“I sat next to you to hit on you,” Marvin informs him, the alcohol on his tongue making him blunt, “I wasn’t going to make shitty small talk about overcompensating meat-heads with ‘roid rage standing in a field for two hours.”

The man’s bored expression fades slightly, a slight crease forming in between his immaculately shaped eyebrows, “Well, that’s a new approach. Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

Marvin tries his best flirtatious smile, hoping it doesn’t look too much like a leer, “You’ve never been hit on before?" 

The man blinks at him, "You’re a bold one, aren’t you?”

“Not usually,” Marvin admits, “I’m just trying to delay turning in for the night because when I wake up, I have to go to that boring ass baseball game.”

“Boring?” The man repeats, looking almost offended, “Baseball isn’t boring.” And oh great, the guy’s probably in town for the game too. Voluntarily. Without a son who he’s desperately trying to connect with over anything at this point.

“You’re not one of those super fans, are you?” Marvin asks with a groan, only half-kidding, “Because I’ll be honest, that’s kind of a deal breaker. I’ve heard enough about baseball today to save me a lifetime.”

The man continues to stare at him, looking vaguely bereft and intrigued. And yeah, Marvin can work with that.

He sticks out his hand, “Marvin.”

The man scoffs at the formality and ignores the outstretched hand, swishing his fruity cocktail around with one of those tiny umbrellas, “Whizzer Brown.” There’s an emphasis on the name, a pointed inflection. It goes over Marvin’s head because he’s too focused on the blue dye staining Whizzer Brown’s tongue. Marvin licks his lips, waiting desperately to lean in and just taste.

“You’re not a baseball fan, are you?” Whizzer Brown asks, still hung up on the subject.

Marvin tries to hide his eye roll, “Don’t you want to talk about something actually interesting? Like whether or not if I kiss you, I’ll be able to guess the flavor of your drink.”

Finally, a smile twitches onto Whizzer Brown’s handsome face. Without any response or further coyness, Whizzer leans in and kisses Marvin, filthy and deliberate. Marvin hesitates for only a few seconds—surprised that that actually worked—before reciprocating, pushing and licking into the man’s mouth as his hand subconsciously goes to bury itself in the soft brown hair. When he reflexively tugs a little, Whizzer moans, breathless and surprised. 

Whizzer breaks the kiss abruptly, leaning back and cocking a challenging eyebrow.

It takes Marvin more than a few embarrassing seconds to remember what he had said, “Uh…Blueberry?”

"Cotton candy.” Whizzer corrects, giving Marvin a thoughtful once over. Marvin tries not to preen nor shrink under the man’s critical stare. Rather, he meets his gaze straight-on with the kind of courage that he certainly doesn’t feel.

Finally, after a long moment, Whizzer Brown asks, “How far away is your hotel?” Marvin suddenly remembers Jason fast asleep in his room, finally crashing from that sugar high when Marvin was stupid enough to let the kids bring candy and snacks for the ride.

“Too far.” Marvin says, which blatant lie but he can’t necessarily say Actually, my son’s in the bed next to mine, so we really can’t. 

Whizzer doesn’t question his answer, simply replying, “Bathroom it is then. Meet me there in five minutes.”

Marvin snorts, “You don’t seem like the type that likes to be discreet.”

Whizzer fixes him with a crooked smile, saying wryly, “Well, I can’t let any potential paparazzi see me lead a man into the bathroom of a gay bar, now can I?”

Marvin blinks at the word paparazzi, “That’s a weird, self-absorbed thing to say.”

Whizzer huffs a laugh, seemingly amused, “Five minutes.”

Five minutes later, Marvin is slamming Whizzer against one of the stall doors, nipping at his neck and uncaring if he leaves bruises.

“So you’re going to the game?” Whizzer says breathlessly, making small talk at a time like this, “Maybe we’ll see each other there.” Marvin thinks about the potential of seeing a bathroom hook-up when he’s out with his twelve year old son and inwardly cringes.

Forgoing a reply, Marvin pulls harder on Whizzer’s hair, effectively shutting him up.

:: - ::

In the stands, Marvin pays as little attention as possible, his legs crossed and chin propped up by his hand. Beside him, Jason seems equally as morose, though that has more to do with the fact that his team is losing rather than being bored by the whole thing in general.

“I told you, Jason,” Some other kid (Kevin? Andrew? Shit, what is his name?) says with a smirk, “Nobody can’t beat Brown’s fast ball.” Brown. Marvin is suddenly reminded of breathy moans and hands clawing at his back. Jesus, why did the guy have to have such a common last name?

“He’s nothing but a head of hair. Even my dad can pitch better than him.” Jason argues airily, rolling his eyes. Marvin is paying enough attention to feel a little insulted. 

“That’s not what the score is saying…” Blocking out the bickering and staring down at his phone, Marvin looks anxiously at the added number, the name Whizzer glaring at him from the screen. He had been surprised when Whizzer had given it to him, even though Marvin was the one who asked for it (the sex, as rushed and crowded as it was being in a bathroom stall, was still mind-blowing—enough so that Marvin would suffer driving four hours into this town to have it again). Whizzer Brown. Weird, probably fake name, but the guy did have a tight— 

“Whizzer Brown has nothing on James Price!” Jason says, snapping Marvin out of his daydream.

“What did you say?” Because how could Jason have found out? He’d been so careful. Oh fuck, how did—

“It’s true,” Jason argues after a beat, looking suspiciously at Marvin for his sudden interest, “Whizzer is a great pitcher and all, but his batting average is—”

“Whizzer Brown?” Marvin repeats dumbly again, “How do you know him?”

“He’s a player on the other team,” Jason says exasperatedly, pointing into the field, “He’s pitching, see?”

For the first time, Marvin looks onto the field, squinting and making out a familiar form with a fit, lithe body and soft-looking hair and a dangerous smile easily interchangeable with a sneer…

Oh.

“Whizzer Brown is a baseball player.” Marvin realizes faintly, surprised he’s able to get that much out.

“But we don’t like him,” Jason tells him hurriedly, “We’re for the other team.” After a pause, he squints at Marvin’s stricken face, “What’s wrong with you?”

I had sex with him in the men’s bathroom last night.

“Nothing,” Marvin persists with a cough, rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s just the, uh—the pitcher’s very…handsome.”

Jason rolls his eyes, “Dad, come on. Gross.”

“He definitely got some action last night.” The other kid says, with a leer too old for him, “I bet she was smoking hot, too.” Marvin follows the other kid’s line of sight and sees purple bruises the shape of Marvin’s mouth decorating the side of Whizzer’s neck.

Marvin is torn between feeling shame for sleeping with a player from the team Jason hates, disgust at himself for sleeping with a baseball player period, and an odd sense of pride because after all, he is a celebrity, isn’t he? Albeit a celebrity from a barbaric, boring sport, but. Still.

Marvin pays more attention in the last half of the game than he’s ever had. He bombards Jason with questions about scoring and positions and just what the hell is happening right now, which Jason all answers with a confused but nonetheless pleased smile. Marvin doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s more interested in a certain player than the game itself.  

Chapter Text

The rest of the weekend passes at a slow, agonizing rate, with every attempt at father-son bonding that Marvin tries to pull being effectively shut down by Jason. Riding with his old man to the park? No, I'd rather go with Jacob's mom. Going out to a fancy dinner for lunch? No, I wanna stay and eat stale sandwiches with the rest of the team. Watching crappy late night television together before going to sleep? No, I'll just keep my headphones stuffed in my ears and ignore every attempt at conversation until you give up and start playing Crossyroads on your own phone; also, I hate you, Dad.

(Okay, so maybe Marvin added that last particular addendum but the sentiment is quite clear).

The only time during the weekend that Jason actually pays attention to him is the very rare moment that Marvin wants to be ignored.

"Why are you looking up Whizzer Brown?" 

Marvin actually jumps at his son's voice looming over his shoulder, quickly locking his phone and stuffing it back into his pocket. He'd thought that Jason had already abandoned him at the bakery in favor of going with another group of boys, but evidently Jason only wants to talk when Marvin is trying to discreetly look up one of his bathroom hook-ups.

"No reason," He says quickly, turning around in his seat to face his son, "I just, uh—I didn't know the major leagues had an openly gay baseball player."

"Yeah, he's the first," Jason informs him bemusedly, offering up the trivia with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes at Marvin’s apparent interest, "But it's like kinda old news by now. He's been out ever since he started playing six years ago—for the worst team ever, I might add."

"Wait, what's so bad about Boston?" He looks down at his burnt croissant, adding with distaste, "Besides their general incompetency at preparing baked goods."

Jason gives Marvin a look like he'd just ask what's so wrong about murder.

"Dad, we're for the Yankees. The Red Sox are, like, our number one rivals." And he looks so seriously aghast and disgusted—as if the entire city of Boston had personally ruined his life. Which hey, Marvin thought he was the only one that had earned that sort of look on his son's face, thank you very much.

(But then Marvin realizes that probably the only thing worse in Jason's mind than his father and the Red Sox is probably his father banging one of the Red Sox players in a seedy bathroom the night before they crushed his favorite team).

Marvin changes the subject right then and there.

"Why aren't you with the other kids?"

Jason shrugs, walking over and plopping down in the seat across from him, "You looked so sad sitting all by yourself." And well, that's not the most flattering response.

Marvin tries to tear off the burnt edges of his over-priced pastry, scoffing, "Thanks for the pity."

Jason rolls his eyes, matching Marvin's scathing tone, "Thanks for the sarcasm." Jesus, he sounds just like Marvin sometimes. It makes Marvin feel oddly proud and annoyed.

After a beat, Jason blurts out, "A couple blocks from here, I saw a sign for some liberal arts college's cheap production of Wicked that starts at four. If we hurry, we can make it."

Thrown, Marvin narrows his eyes at him, unabashedly suspicious of his own son, "You want to go see a play?"

Jason honestly seems apathetic at the idea, but he shrugs and points out, "This weekend, you've been doing all the dumb stuff that I like. It's my turn to suffer."

Marvin should tell him that it's fine—that he doesn't have to if he doesn't want to, that it's his weekend, after all. That's what a selfless parent would say, right?

"Yes. Thank God." Marvin sighs in relief, abruptly standing up and checking his watch, "If I had to go into that YMCA that they were talking about, I was going to make myself throw up so I could go back to the hotel.”

Which isn't probably something you admit to your kid, but Jason seems to appreciate the honesty.

:: - ::

The play is lackluster at best, but it provides great fodder for jokes and critiques between Marvin and Jason.

"I'm telling you," Marvin still persists as they start to walk back after the showing, having been called by the head chaperones and told to get back before curfew, "Fiyero winked at me during curtain call. Why is it so hard to believe that some people think I'm attractive?"

Jason looks both uncomfortable and disbelieving at the topic of conversation, "You look like such a dad though. I mean, I guess some guys are into that sort—"

"No, no, I'm cutting that sentence off," Marvin says hurriedly, growing a little skeeved himself now and realizing Jason probably said it to gross him out (a quid pro quo), "And simultaneously pretending you weren't referring to something you should have no idea exists."

"Dad, I'm almost thirteen years old," Jason points out, looking a little haughty at his condescension, "I'm not naive."

"Well, I am," Marvin says firmly, "Let me just pretend you don't know anything about sex, okay? At least until you're thirty."

Jason rolls his eyes, looking put out by Marvin treating him like the child that he is, "Whatever."

::

"Hey, Dad?" Marvin looks up from his computer, surprised to hear his son's voice after an hour of silence. Jason has pushed one headphone out of his ear, and Marvin feels a surge of hope that this is finally the father to son moment that Trina had promised would happen.

But then Jason bites his lip and cuts his eyes up at him, like he always does when he wants something, "Can I stay in Jacob's room tonight? He brought his game cube, and Matthew and Andrew are already staying over there, and his mom said it was okay."

...Okay. Yeah, that—that hurts. Just a little.

"You'd rather sleep on the floor than in a bed?" Marvin points out, though he's really asking you'd rather stay with those snot-nosed brats than me?

"Please." Jason wheedles, "It's not like I have anything to do in here."

Well, you could actually talk to me, for starters.

But Marvin's been his age, and he knows that that probably had never even crossed his mind. That Marvin hardly even crosses his mind at all, except when he's pissed at him.

"Sure. Whatever." Marvin says curtly after a pause, trying to mask the hurt in his clipped voice, "But if you get kidnapped, it's Jacob's mom's fault."

Jason, ever snooty, fires back, "She knows karate. We won't get kidnapped."

Marvin looks back at his computer, muttering, "That's something people say right before they get kidnapped."

"Dad."

:: - ::

After Marvin drops Jason off at Jacob's room, he debates going back to his lonely hotel room and getting back to work. After all, he has fallen behind on his latest project, and he likes to remain as invisible to his boss as possible, thank you very much.

But because Marvin likes to think about the possibility of making good decisions before he inevitably makes bad ones, he ends up back at that gay bar, ordering that dumb cotton candy cocktail that he hadn't been able to get out of his might since he kissed that baseball player.

Whizzer Brown, he thinks snidely to himself, remembering his blue-dyed (but very, very talented) tongue, what an asshole.

As he sips the drink through a neon pink straw, he checks his phone again on the off-chance that Jason has checked in on him. It's a little pathetic, he realizes, but at least it's better than getting sloppily drunk and shamelessly hitting on guys until one decides to take him up on his offer.

Which, he can't help but admit, is actually what he'll also be doing later tonight, so he doesn't really remember what his point was.

Marvin is still looking down at his phone when he hears a familiar cocky voice, "I see the drink made an impression."

Marvin looks up, blinking in surprise when he sees Whizzer's smug grin as the man slides into the stool next to him.

"What are you doing here?" Marvin asks, "Shouldn't you still be celebrating your team's victory?" The game had only been yesterday, and Marvin would guess that Whizzer would be spending the entire rest of the weekend celebrating with his teammates just as Jason had been morosely sulking with his.

"I guess I was hoping to see you again." Whizzer says, whether it's the truth or a flirtation, his tone is too pointed and cheeky to tell for sure, "I was worried you'd already left town."

Marvin gives him a tight smile, "Well, if you wanted to see me again, you shouldn't have given me a fake number."

Whizzer rolls his eyes, "Oh come on, Marvin. Don't tell me you're pissed at me for that. You should know I can't just go around giving people my personal phone number."

"Yeah, I know that now," Marvin responds tersely, "Given that you're apparently some famous baseball player, which you didn't feel the need to even mention."

"So you saw me at the game?" Whizzer says coyly, shamelessly putting a hand on his knee, "What'd you think?"

Not really knowing enough about the sport to compliment or insult his playing, Marvin just kinda shrugs. Rather than looking offended at his apathy, Whizzer just huffs a laugh. It brings attention to his mouth, and once Marvin looks at his plush, smirking lips, it's hard to look away. Whether it's on or off the field, Whizzer still knows how to command a man's attention, with nothing but a crooked smirk or sly hand slowly inching its way up his thigh. Marvin hears a chirping sound, and he's so mesmerized by Whizzer's hooded gaze, it takes him a minute to realize it was his phone.

Pulling away slightly, Marvin looks at the text message, surprised and relieved to find it to be from Jason.

I haven't been kidnapped yet. You can stop rehearsing your Liam Neeson Taken speech. Also, goodnight.

The text is all grammatically correct—almost obnoxiously so. It makes Marvin smile a little bit, on automatic. He'd almost forgotten Whizzer had been watching him until the man's hand keeps moving, dangerously close to his crotch.

"So did it make you nervous to sit next to your boyfriend and see the hickeys you'd left on me?" Whizzer demands in a low taunt, seemingly sizing him up before adding with a smirk, "Or was it your wife."

The question doesn't rile Marvin up like Whizzer had apparently intended. It just makes him gawk a little at him, thrown by the thinly-veiled accusation.

"Neither." Marvin says pointedly, only sputtering a little bit when he feels the ghost of Whizzer's deft fingers brush against his groin.

Whizzer looks unconvinced, rolling his eyes and pointing out, "You've been worriedly checking your phone ever since you got here, and you're telling me that you don't have anybody waiting up for you?"

He's fishing for information, Marvin supposes. Trying to boil him down to some two-dimensional archetype—Cheating Partner or Married Closet Case.

"Nobody's waiting up for me," Marvin tells him with clear, undeniable honesty, causing the sharpness in Whizzer's cruel, mocking smile to dull a little in confusion, "You know, it's not nice to assume things."

"A lot of people tell me I'm not nice." Whizzer says coolly, the insufferable smugness finally draining from his face. He looks vaguely intrigued again, just as he had that first night.

"I can't imagine why." Marvin says, not stopping Whizzer as he reaches over and grabs Marvin's drink. He takes a pointed sip while maintaining eye contact, as if establishing some sort of power play. But Marvin just openly leers, liking how his lips wrap around the straw and thinking about something else he'd rather have Whizzer's lips pay that sort of attention to.

"So nobody's waiting up for you, huh?" Whizzer asks lowly, flat-voiced and shameless, "Do you wanna go back to my place then?" Marvin is the one who usually asks that, and the power shift unbalances him for a brief moment.

He tries to recover, biting out, "Still worried about the paparazzi in the bathroom?"

"That first time was a drunken hook-up that I didn't know for sure was gonna pan out. There's no way in hell I take any of my initial fucks to where I actually live," He pauses, adding pointedly, "Regardless if I could already tell he's gonna be one hell of a ride."

Marvin swallows, not letting the flattery get to him (much), "And now?"

"Now..." Whizzer tries to grab his crotch, but Marvin anticipates it and grabs his hand before it can find purchase, refusing to release his grip and threading their fingers together. 

At the move, the stars in Whizzer's eyes explode into supernovas, all the arrogance and the detachment wiped clear off his face and leaving nothing but a raw display of want.

Marvin doesn't let go his hand, and Whizzer doesn't try to make him.

"Now," Whizzer begins again, rougher this time with his own Adam's apple bobbing a little, "I want to take my time with you."

Unable to help himself, Marvin leans in and kisses him, and he'd be embarrassed at his own shuddering sigh if Whizzer himself hadn't moaned at the contact.

That first time, both men had been tipsy and only had one goal in mind: get off—as quickly and efficiently as possible. This time, it's different. Both men are more or less sober now, with more than one goal clear in their minds: get off and dominate—no matter how long it takes.

The kiss is controlled and deliberate, with Marvin and Whizzer battling for dominance and keeping score of every choked, reluctant noise that the other makes.

"Okay." Marvin breaks the kiss, breathing against his lips, "Let's go."

Whizzer drags his finger across the hollow of Marvin's throat, enjoying how it makes his Adam's apple jump, "It's about time."

:: - ::

That morning, Marvin awakens with a deep but pleasant ache all over his body and another's mouth pressed against his stomach.

Feeling the tendons in his muscles jump, Whizzer pauses in his journey, looking up from his position between Marvin's legs, "It's about time you got up."

Marvin hums, reaching down and entangling a hand in his hair, "Well, don't stop."

Whizzer shoots him an eye roll before bending his head back down and resuming his efforts, earning a tight pull of his hair from Marvin in gratitude.

Marvin loses himself in the sensation, memories of last night only further contributing to the flush he feels starting to spread from his face down to his neck and chest. Whizzer continues to bite and lick and suck, never ceasing even as Marvin's phone suddenly starts blaring on the nightstand. 

Vaguely miffed at being torn out of the moment, Marvin fumbles for it and answers it without even thinking, "What?"

"Where the hell are you?" Jason demands, and Marvin is so shocked and gutted to hear his son's voice at a time like this that he doesn't even scold him for his language, "I've been banging on your door for ten minutes."

"Jason!" Marvin shoves Whizzer off of him and makes a gesture for silence when the man tries to bitch, "H—Hey, Buddy. Sorry about that. I'm not there. I, uh, went to get us some breakfast."

"I already ate with the team. Dad, Coach says we all need to check out and be on the bus in thirty minutes. Get back here soon."

"Yeah, of course." Marvin frantically starts putting on his clothes, ignoring Whizzer's calculating gaze on him, "I'll be there in five minutes, tops. Look, I'm really so—" But Jason has already hung up the phone, cutting off Marvin's apology.

"Fuck!" Marvin curses, zipping up his pants and hurriedly pulling on his shirt, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—"

"So you don't have a boyfriend, huh?" Whizzer teases pointedly, though he looks a little miffed that Marvin is leaving so soon.

"Jesus, will you stop? He's not that." After sloppily getting his clothes on, Marvin looks around at the stranger's house, suddenly realizing that he has no idea where he is.

"How far away am I from the Holiday Inn off Allen Street?" 

Whizzer ponders this, "Uh, about a fifteen minute walking distance." That'd leave him fifteen minutes to shower, pack, check out...

"Fuck," Marvin looks over at the naked baseball player, pleading shamelessly, "Please drive me."

Instead of being a nice guy, Whizzer just crosses his arms over his chest and cocks an eyebrow, "What's in it for me?"

"Anything." Marvin is desperate, doesn't have time to play a mind game, "Please, Whizzer, I can't miss this bus ride. He'd never forgive me." Marvin is devastated at the thought, having already been the subject of Jason's round, haunted, disappointed gaze many times before. Marvin likes to think that he's changed into the kind of father that Jason deserves, but then he keeps doing stupid shit like this—going to bars, hooking up with strangers, forcing Jason to go to a play.

It's about time that he grows up, you know? It's about time that Marvin stops pulling shit like this that leaves people disappointed and heartbroken—especially the one person that Marvin cares about more than anything else in the entire world.

At the sight of Marvin's expression, something in Whizzer's face flickers, his cold detachment wavering. He doesn't know just how pathetic and devastated that he looks, but apparently it's enough so that Whizzer doesn't throw him out to the curb and just says sharply—after a long moment of exasperated reflection, "Fine. Let me get dressed. You'll be there in about five minutes, if the traffic isn't shit." 

Stalking over to his dresser, he digs through one of the drawers before pulling out and towel and throwing it to him, "Take a five minute shower here to get the stench of sex off of you. And don't you dare touch any of my hair products; that shit is expensive. If you have to wash your hair, use, like, the bar of soap or whatever."

Marvin grips the towel tightly, his overwhelming gratitude slightly mitigated by his confusion at the fact that Whizzer is actually helping him, "Uh—Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Just stop looking so—" Whizzer makes a weird, fluttery hand gesture, "Like that. It's really putting me off." He disappears out of the bedroom, and even though Marvin should be hurrying to take a shower and not disappoint his kid, Marvin can't help but watch him walk away, the sway of his tight ass certainly not putting Marvin off at all.

:: - ::

When Whizzer pulls into the curb, Marvin is reluctant to get out of the car, the reality of their time being cut off just now dawning on him. And it isn't like they've talked nearly enough for Marvin to miss Whizzer himself, but he'd be lying if he won't miss the feeling that he'd given him, of grasping at the sheets and pressing bruises into his hips.

"Good job last night." Marvin suddenly blurts out, stuttering when he realizes what a dumbass thing to say, "You, um, did great."

After trying but failing to suppress it for a hot second, Whizzer snorts, looking endlessly amused, "Uh—thanks, I guess."

Well, that was a sour, embarrassing note to leave it off on. 

More than a little flustered and annoyed at himself, Marvin opens the door and tries to leave, only to be stopped by a pressing hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, Marvin, wait," Whizzer says hurriedly, looking like his words are impulsive rather than planned, "Can you, uh—Can I maybe have your number?" He looks a little embarrassed that he has to ask, as if being a professional baseball player usually pardons him from such behavior.

Marvin preens a little bit, and he can't help but tease snidely, "The real one? Or are we gonna do a quid pro quo?"

"Ugh, you ruined it. Never mind."

But Marvin doesn't listen to his flippancy, blinding grabbing the pen out of the car cup-holder and taking Whizzer's hand. He writes his number clearly on his palm, getting a sick sort of satisfaction at the thought that he's left even more marks in Whizzer's skin.

"I live in New York." Marvin tells him, "Give me a call and convince me that next time will also be worth the four hour drive."

Whizzer doesn't respond but he feels him watching as Marvin quickly bolts out of the car and runs into the hotel, his eyes drilling into his form.

Marvin still feels the residual heat from Whizzer's gaze even as he's on the bus, having made it just in time and only receiving a slightly scathing glare from Jason. 

Jason is seated next to him, his headphones on and eyes glued to whatever the newest game-boy that is (are they even called game boys anymore? Fuck, Marvin can't remember) that Marvin had bought him for Christmas. Jason doesn't even look over at him when Marvin's phone beeps with a text, and Marvin is so very lucky because when he reads it, he feels his face almost split wide open with his huge grin.

New York huh? Im gonna be there next week for business.

Because Marvin has zero self-restraint and can't even try to be coy, he hurriedly types his response, answering straight away: You should stop by my apartment then. 

He has to wait an undoubtedly calculated twenty minutes before Whizzer texts back: K. As long as you'll finally let me take my time.

There's a bit of a back and forth before Marvin finally flusteredly sends his address, pointedly telling him that a weekend visit is strictly off limits.

"Thanks, by the way." Jason suddenly blurts out, distracting Marvin from his heated banter over the phone.

Marvin blinks, "For?"

"For coming with me," Jason says, glancing up from his gaming device and smiling a little, "I know how much you hate baseball."

Marvin shrugs, trying to cover up his stutter of breath when he hears his phone beep with another text, "You know, I've actually been thinking—maybe the dumb sport isn't so bad."

Chapter Text

Marvin is at a loss as to what to expect, really.

When Whizzer texts him the very next week with a simple I'll be there at eight, Marvin can hardly think of anything else at work that day, the dozens and dozens of hyperbolic scenarios and one-sided conversations and hot, groin-inspiring possibilities taking his thoughts captive. Rather than revising and analyzing spreadsheets, Marvin just stares blankly at his computer screen—just wondering.

What will Whizzer be wearing? What should Marvin be wearing? Does Marvin offer him, like, a beer when he comes in? Do they sit down and talk before tearing each other's clothes off? Will he have already eaten? Should Marvin invite him out to dinner or something? Is Whizzer expecting him to have food already there? Is Whizzer expecting anything at all?

It's ridiculous, he knows. He's being ridiculous. Right?

"You're being ridiculous." Charlotte confirms over the phone, the sound of hurried feet on the hospital's floor and the echo of muffled voices unable to drown out the deadpan of his friend's voice.

Marvin wonders if she can hear him pacing on his own linoleum floor and immediately halts in his kitchen.

"I'm being contentious." Marvin argues, because it's fine if he says he's being ridiculous but it's a little insulting that someone else picks up on it with little prompt, "You know, polite."

"No, you're panicking," Charlotte declares, "Either because you really care what he thinks about you, or you're worried to be alone with him because you subconsciously think he's a serial killer."

"He's not a serial killer. He's a baseball player." Marvin asserts, to which Charlotte once again scoffs audibly, "Charlotte, I'm serious. Why would I lie?"

"Marvin, you told me that you saw Cher on the subway one time," Charlotte points out, "And then when I asked you to describe her, you said she was a short, twenty-something, Asian woman."

"She told me she was Cher, okay?" Marvin sharply defends himself, "I don't know the real Cher! How was I supposed to know she was bullshitting me?"

"And so this guy told you he was a famous baseball player," Charlotte emphasizes, "And you, like you always do, took it at face value and didn't investigate any further."

"So you really think that I was fed a line?" Marvin asks, adding cheekily, "You don't think I could actually seduce Whizzer Brown?"

Surprisingly, and more than a little insultingly, there's a stretch of silence.

Marvin's playful expression drops, and he tries not to sound offended or pouty when he prompts, seriously this time, "Charlotte?"

All he hears is Charlotte's palpable hesitation.

"Charlotte."

"Marvin, you know I love you—"

"For the preservation of our friendship," Marvin says, "I'm hanging up before you can finish that sentence."

"Remember those defensive moves I taught you!" He hears Charlotte shout hurriedly just before he ends the call.

"He's not a serial killer." Marvin scoffs, to only himself now, and then he starts wondering if Whizzer could be some celebrity-slash-serial-killer, and maybe there's a huge cover up, and maybe that's why Whizzer wanted to meet somewhere private, and maybe calling Charlotte to ease his anxiety hadn't been the greatest idea.

:: - ::

Thirty minutes of restlessly sitting at the kitchen table and checking his phone, Marvin finally hears the beep of the intercom.

"Let me in," Whizzer demands, "I passed one guy wearing a Yankees hat on the street, and I think he ran to go form a mob—pitchforks and all."

Marvin buzzes him in, taking these last few minutes to check his hair and hurriedly fix his tie and scoff to himself that he's being ridiculous.

After all, why should Marvin care what Whizzer thinks? He's next to nothing to him, really—just a pair of capable hands and pretty lips. Baseball player or not, Whizzer is still just a pretty boy—a vapid, smart-mouthed, demure slip of a thing. The type that Marvin already knows just how to pin to the mattress and rough up with his hands and make fall apart. 

But still—the whole situation itself just gives him pause. After all, who is he trying to be here, you know? Some college frat boy who has regular hook-ups and—and booty calls? Marvin is forty years old, for fuck’s sakes. He should be settled down and obsessing over his cholesterol and using outdated social media to condescendingly and irrationally attack millennials. He should be coming home to dinner already made by a smiling partner and living vicariously through his resentful son. He should be acting his age.

But then again, Marvin thinks as his gaze drifts to his dirty, untouched wedding ring, resting in the bookshelf rather than a dumpster because he still can’t bear to let it all go completely, I’ve never really fit the mold of what I was supposed to be.

Two years. Marvin would think that that’d be enough time to get over it, to finally be himself unapologetically.

Marvin hurriedly walks over the wedding ring and picks it up, suddenly nervous that Whizzer would see it and take it as proof that Marvin is just another stereotypical closet case. He wanders over to the trash can, hesitates, and shoves it into a kitchen drawer instead.

His ease of consciousness is short-lived as Whizzer’s loud, indiscreet knock at the door jostles him. Because he has no sense of pride whatsoever, Marvin is already crossing the room and opening the door before he even realizes it.

Whizzer’s hair is slightly frizzed from the humid, suffocating weather, and the upper part of his cheeks and tip of his nose are rosy in complexion. The tightness of his face speaks of the long day he’s undoubtedly had, but the fire in his eyes assures Marvin that the man is perfectly ready for a long night.

Even though Whizzer is the one slightly disheveled, Marvin feels like he’s the only one who’s lost his footing.

Marvin knows he should say hello, invite him in, offer him a beer.

“You’re late.” Marvin says instead, vaguely annoyed.

A corner of Whizzer’s tightly pressed mouth loosens as it quirks up into a half-smile, “I didn’t know this was an appointment.” Marvin absently wonders if he always has that tone of voice—that makes it sound like he’s silently laughing at you. Marvin quickly decides that he couldn’t possibly because surely someone would have strangled him by now if he did.

Marvin opens the door wider and allows Whizzer inside, closing the door behind him. As Whizzer looks around at the dirty dishes in the sink and the crowded countertops and mostly untouched oven, Marvin looks at the long stretch of skin and tendons of Whizzer’s neck and the trimmed, fitted (and probably personally tailored) shirt that exposes just a faint outline of his nipples.

Marvin clears his throat and tries to distract himself from the implications of the meeting, exchanging the pleasantry, “So how was your—“ But Whizzer just kisses him, swallowing the rest of the question as well as Marvin’s surprised ‘oh.’

Not allowing Marvin a second to sputter out another half-hearted attempt at small talk, Whizzer deftly unzips Marvin’s pants and drops to his knees right there on the kitchen floor. Though a little shell-shocked at the abruptness, Marvin immediately grabs a fist of Whizzer’s hair, smiling at how the man’s smirking eyes darken further.

The forwardness is a little disorienting, but at least the impromptu blowjob was a pleasant surprise.

:: - ::

The first thing that Whizzer says after two hours of very enthusiastic, very flexibility-challenging sex is, “Man, a pizza sounds fucking incredible right now.”

Marvin hasn’t even caught his breath yet, so all he can do is meekly raise his head from the pillow and gaze incredulously at him. Then, without missing a beat, he says, “There’s a phone number for a twenty-four hour pizza place on the fridge. I think they’re still doing deliveries at this time.”

Whizzer snorts, kicking off the covers and rising from the bed, bare-assed and unashamed, “The perks of sleeping with a sad bachelor.”

“Sad?” Marvin repeats, not bothering to hide his offense.

Whizzer throws him a look over his shoulder, asking pointedly, “Honey, when was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”

When I was still with my wife.

But Marvin thinks that that’s a bit of a too much information kinda answer, so he just ignores the question and reluctantly gets out of bed, leading Whizzer to the kitchen.

Trying to not make it noticeable that his attention keeps swaying to the naked man, Marvin keeps his gaze on his phone as he punches the number in. As soon as they pick up, he rattles off his own order easily and then looks to Whizzer, who he now notices has gathered all his clothes and is dressing himself hurriedly.

Marvin clears his throat, getting his attention, “What do you want?”

The question seems to oddly throw Whizzer, and the man just blinks at him for a few seconds. But finally, at Marvin’s exasperated look, Whizzer snaps back into focus, somewhat hesitantly telling Marvin his order as Marvin much more firmly repeats it over the phone.

It isn’t until he hangs up that Marvin belatedly realizes that he didn’t even ask if Whizzer wanted to stay here and eat with him.

“I’m not terrible company, you know.” Marvin assures him dryly, noticing Whizzer’s hesitant, dazed expression.

“I guess I’ll have to decide that for myself.” Whizzer says, leaving his pants unbuckled and shirt unbuttoned. He still looks positively debauched, and it makes Marvin sorta smile in self-satisfaction.

“Don’t you have work or something tomorrow?” Whizzer asks suddenly, glancing down at the clock on his phone.

Marvin cocks an eyebrow, “Are you trying to say it’s past my bedtime?”

“For some guy that probably works nine-to-five, it’s definitely past your bedtime.” Whizzer tells him, and Marvin only lets this presumption slide because it’s actually right this time.

“Now I know why we skipped pleasantries,” Marvin says airily, not really glaring at Whizzer so much as sizing him up, “You’re shit at them.”

“You’re one to talk,” Whizzer scoffs, “You haven’t said one nice word to me since I got here.”

“That’s not true. I told you that you had a talented tongue and pretty lips.”

“Doesn’t count. I had your dick in my mouth,” Whizzer points out, and he says the words so casually, as if talking about the weather, “I could have gotten you to confess to the Great Boston Fire if I wanted to.”

Rolling his eyes, Marvin slowly walks over to Whizzer, backing him against the wall. Whizzer lets himself be pinned against the thin, flimsy plaster, even gasps as Marvin starts tracing his collarbone with his tongue and teeth.

“You’re very handsome, Whizzer Brown,” Marvin lays it on thick, though every single word spoken is undeniable truth, “Fuck, with starry eyes like those, I’d pin you as a movie star before a baseball player.”

Like the attention whore that he clearly is, Whizzer drinks in the praise and prompts snootily, “Starry eyes, huh? That all?”

“And that jawline,” He mouths at the aforementioned body part, capturing Whizzer’s lips for a quick kiss when the man’s mouth involuntarily falls open, “And your bone structure, and your eyelashes—fuck. You’re just about as pretty as you are mean.”

“You’re a sweet-talker as much as you are a shit-talker.” Whizzer comments lowly, entangling a hand in Marvin’s already mussed hair, “Good to know.”

:: - ::

They eat their pizzas in relative silence, and Marvin imagines that it would be a little awkward if he himself hadn’t been so transfixed on the way that Whizzer keeps licking his lips and catching the melted cheese with his tongue.

Marvin decides to break the ice, “I don’t know anything about you.”

Whizzer doesn’t give him a break and just responds, without missing a beat, “Just look up my Wikipedia page.” It’s an arrogant quip, one that Marvin was sorta already expecting.

“I did, actually,” Marvin reveals, “It wasn’t very impressive. Just—stats and everything else I don’t care about.”

Rather than looking offended at the total disregard of his baseball career, Whizzer just kinda smiles—a small, soft smile, one without all those edges like the ones previous.

He polishes off the last remnant of a slice and then prompts, “What do you wanna know?”

Everything. Anything. Something.

He settles with something easy first, “How do you like New York?”

“There’s too many people, too much noise, too much—rushing. It makes me feel like I’m always running late for something.” Whizzer answers, adding almost like an afterthought, “Boston’s about the same though. I don’t know—I used to love the city life. It was different and exciting and nothing was ever still. But I guess even constant change can get a little tedious and humdrum after awhile.”

“I lived in the city all my life,” Marvin offers up, and that’s all that he was going to say but Whizzer is staring at him, as if he has his full attention, and Marvin just suddenly unlocks his jaw and lets the words pour out of his mouth, “And yeah, I understand the feeling of being—rushed. I don’t know if it’s the city itself or if it’s just me, but I’ve always felt like I’ve had to be on the move, you know? Like I’ve always had to be working angles and climbing up the ladders and going through these life milestones as fast as possible like they were just checkpoints in a video game level.

“And sometimes it feels like I’m actually going somewhere with all of this, but other times…it’s like I’m just marching in one place.” The admission is unintentional and perhaps a little uncalled for, but just saying it out loud loosens some pressure in his chest, has him feeling like it’s easier to breathe and move around comfortably in his skin.

He didn’t say those things for pity, and he suddenly feels a surge of dread when he sees Whizzer with a vague, half-formed expression. Whizzer opens his mouth to say—something, but Marvin never finds out just what. He closes it before he can even get a syllable out, apparently thinking better of it.

Instead, Whizzer opens his mouth again and teases meekly, “You do seem like the kinda guy that would use a video game comparison for this sorta thing.”

“It’s called an analogy.” Marvin corrects with an eye-roll, the vulnerability in his voice and expression being replaced with condescension. At the shift in attitude, Whizzer narrows his gaze at him, the edge of his smile sharpening.

Wiping his hands of grease and clearing his throat, Marvin tries to bring the conversation back on track, “So, what are your plans for the future?”

“Beat the international record of pitching the most no-hitters, be the first openly gay man to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, have Tyra Banks herself publically call me a fashion icon.” Whizzer says, more than a little wistfully, “Those are just the feasible plans, of course.”

Marvin blinks, and before he can shut his traitorous fucking mouth, he asks, “Not planning on ever settling down?”

He doesn’t mean it as a condescending accusation, or—god forbid—a line. It’s just the thought of not wanting a family—of being perfectly fine with not having a group of people unconditionally loving you, depending on you—is just so utterly baffling to him. Marvin has always wanted that love, that devotion. It was the only thing that kept him anchored to Trina for all those years—being needed and cared for.

“Never,” Whizzer confirms, looking vaguely disgusted at even the notion, "Settling down is just—settling, you know? And why settle when you can have so much more?”

“More?” What could be more than that? “Like what?”  At first, Whizzer looks surprised at the question, and there’s a slight hesitation in his consistently confident expression.

But then Whizzer grins filthily at him, and Marvin can’t tell if his response is genuine or just another fucking line, “Like a beautiful man waiting for me in every city of America.”

Marvin stares at him, wanting desperately to be able to tell the difference between the man’s crude honesty and his little games. But Whizzer’s gaze is like a closed curtain, and no matter how long he dedicates to studying every flicker of hue, it’s completely indecipherable.

After long beats of silence, Whizzer clears his throat as he picks at one of his slices, prompting cheekily, "So what are you gonna ask next, my favorite color?"

"What is it?" Marvin asks suddenly, having to elaborate at Whizzer’s bemused expression, "Your favorite color."

A corner of Whizzer’s mouth twitches, amused, "Blue.”

“I could have sworn you’d be one of those assholes that would pick a pretentious color,” Marvin admits, giving him a crooked smile, “You know, like blood orange or pink lemonade.”

“What’s yours?” Whizzer asks, and it throws Marvin off a bit.

“Uh—red, actually.” Marvin looks down at his grease-stained pizza box, joking, “Seems like we’re incompatible at literally everything, doesn’t it?” It’s a light-hearted observation, but it makes Whizzer suck in a surprised breath, and when Marvin looks back up, he sees Whizzer’s expression contorted in realization and—discomfort.

“Marvin, you do realize that this isn’t—that I don’t want to date you, right?” And it seems like a pretty mean thing to just say, but Whizzer suddenly sounds so gentle and—and kind about it, “I didn’t mean to lead you on—“

“No, no. That wasn’t what I was—“ Marvin cuts off, embarrassed, “I know that. I didn’t mean to sound like I thought that this was leading to anything. I just—I was making a joke.”

It’s the truth, but Whizzer seems hesitant to believe him. But he doesn’t make it hard on Marvin this time. Instead, he just comments breezily, with a mocking half-smile, “You’re shit at those then.”

“Yeah,” Marvin says, blaming his sudden hysteric and awkwardness on his tiredness, “I guess I am.”

After Whizzer finishes his pizza (nearly all of it by himself and hasn’t seemed to gain a fucking pound—that fucker), Marvin walks him to the door, and it suddenly feels like a bizarre inverted first date scenario.

Marvin knows now that Whizzer doesn’t do pleasantries, so he doesn’t say goodbye and instead just offers a meek, awkward smile.

Whizzer seems like he wants to bolt but something stops him just as he passes through the threshold. Whizzer turns back to face him, and he seems genuinely curious as he asks, “What do you want out of life, Marvin?”

If Marvin would have been asked that question years earlier, the answer would have flowed right out: a tight-knit family—a perfect house, a perfect wife, a perfect child. To be adored. To be cared after. To be the center of everything.

But Marvin had all those things once, and none of it made him happy.

He recalls Whizzer’s answer to the question and wonders if it truly is incomprehensible. To maybe not settle down, to be desired rather than loved, to have fun.

Giving Whizzer a significant look, Marvin answers simply, “More.”

Chapter Text

Marvin stares blankly at the baseball game on the television screen, trying desperately to keep up with the nonsensical trivia and commentary spewing from his son's mouth.

Seated beside him on the couch, Jason keeps prattling on, seemingly ignorant to his father's helplessness, "—And that guy is Kit Asher. It's only his third year in the Majors, and he's already almost beaten the record of fastest pitch of all time. But I mean, his technique is sloppy, and he kinda reminds me of—Dad, are you even listening to me?"

Listening? Yes. Understanding? Not so much.

Marvin turns to his son, ready to admit just that. But then the words just get caught in his throat, leaving both of them suspended in awkward silence.

Because that would make Marvin look stupid, wouldn't it? Like, Jesus, who doesn't understand baseball? The barbaric sport is easily understood and played by six-year-olds, and Marvin—valediction of his high school, college graduate with a masters degree, and in summary: pretty fucking smart, thank you very much—can't even make sense of the simplest principles of the game?

It's, well—embarrassing. To ask his twelve-year-old son questions that any respectable, grown man should know or—at the very least—have already figured out by now.

Marvin doesn't answer Jason for a beat too long, and Jason misinterprets his father's hesitation. His eager, excited expression dissolves, and he turns his vaguely disappointed gaze away from Marvin to the television screen.

"We can watch something else." He says, his voice clear and carefully neutral. And he has no idea—how hard Marvin is actually trying. How desperately he wants Jason to look at him like he does those stupid baseball players.

As Jason flicks around the television guide, his interest in the game apparently ruined by Marvin's perceived apathy, Marvin scrambles to think of just what Jason had said before. 

Okay, so who the hell is Kit Asher? Uhh—bad technique! That's what Jason had said. Okay, but why? How?

And because Marvin has clearly lost any semblance of sanity or boundaries, he texts the first person he sees on his contact list:

Brown, Whizzer.

He types out the request hurriedly but he hesitates pressing send, coming back to his senses. It would be inappropriate to text Whizzer about this—really, to text Whizzer at all with the exception of the usual when and where that they've been using for the past month to hook up every so often. 

Marvin and Whizzer do not text each other randomly with weird questions out of context. Those types of texts require a rapport, a pre-established foundation of a relationship. And Marvin and Whizzer do not have that sort of thing. Hell, more often than not, Whizzer leaves his apartment the minute after they get their rocks off—leaving Marvin alone in the aftermath of the high, panting and sweaty and oddly hollow-feeling.

Gun-shy, Marvin hesitates pulling the trigger until he looks over and sees Jason, mouth twisted and eyes pained.

The sight is not just a stab to his chest; it’s more like an evisceration.

Without a second thought, Marvin hits send to the message:

Urgent. Give me a fact about Kit Asher’s playing.

Marvin doesn’t kid himself in expecting any quick response, so he actually jumps when his phone buzzes with a text message only minutes later.

He would be great if he could up his batting average. He just needs to choke up on the bat, but he always tries to champion strength over technique. That’s also why his pitching is spotty.

Marvin stares at his phone screen, caught off guard, before he anchors himself back to reality.

He looks over at Jason and tries awkwardly, “I feel like I’ve heard the name Kit Asher before. He’s not a good batter, is he?”

Jason finally looks at him, a little surprised at his delayed response, before answering tightly, “Uh, no, he kinda sucks.”

“He strikes me as the kind of guy that champions strength over technique.” Marvin attempts nonchalance, pretending that he isn’t essentially reading off of a script.

He sees Jason’s eyes light up and a corner of his mouth quirk, and his heart bursts at the seams.

When Jason continues his rant, Marvin resists the urge to text Whizzer again, to make him an accomplice in his scheme of earning his son’s admiration and adoration. Marvin shakes off his nerves and tries to do something that he doesn’t normally attempt.

When Jason explains things, he actually listens.

:: - ::

In bed that night, Marvin had almost completely forgotten about Whizzer’s role in the brief crisis until he checks his phone and sees an unread message.

So you’re all hot and bothered by Kit Asher now huh? Already casting me aside for another pretty boy?

Marvin smiles, imagining Whizzer’s arrogant, smart mouth shaping the words.

He types back, Would never even dream of it.

And well—it gets a little out of hand from there.

:: - ::

It starts gradually at first. A brief exchange once every few days—nothing lengthy or in depth. Sometimes, on his lunch break at work, Marvin will text Whizzer a stupid fact that he’d learned from the lid of his Snapple; likewise, sometimes, during “boring” team meetings, Whizzer will send Marvin pictures of stupid doodles that he’d made instead of paying attention.

The messages are light and harmless—ones that Marvin could trade with anyone, really (well, that is, with the exception of all messages sent past eleven at night but you get his point).

And even when the text messages start to rapidly increase in frequency, Marvin still feels as though he knows nothing about the Great and Mythical Whizzer Brown—disregarding all the shallow stuff that’s easily google-able.

Marvin knows Whizzer is from some shit town in Nebraska, but he doesn’t know whether he came from a home of loved ones or strangers.

Marvin knows Whizzer likes to draw goofy stick figures in lewd or nonsensical positions, but he doesn’t know if art is just a means to pass the time and piss superiors off or if it’s a genuine interest.

Marvin knows Whizzer wants more out of life, but he doesn’t know if Whizzer himself even comprehends just exactly what he means by that.

Two weeks after that first urgent message, Marvin and Whizzer are caught in the middle of a “deep” conversation about whether animals believe in and/or practice divorce in the wild.

You’re wrong, Whizzer texts simply in response to Marvin’s embarrassingly lengthy analysis (coupled with links to several Wikipedia pages).

Marvin, bereft at the flippancy, smarmily texts back, Nice thorough rebuttal. I bet you were captain of the debate team in high school.

Whizzer replies, I bet you were actually apart of the debate team in high school, nerd.

Marvin lets the message be without a response for too long because Whizzer sends a mocking, Oh my god, you were, weren’t you?

Marvin frowns at his phone—because yeah, he was actually; so what?— and types, that’s beside the point. Don’t try to get me sidetracked just because you were losing the argument.

Whizzer responds ever so intelligibly: NERD.

Marvin rolls his eyes and yawns, startled by his exhaustion. He looks at the clock and sees that it’s midnight, even though he could have sworn it had only been nine o’clock only a few minutes ago.

Eyelids starting to become heavy, Marvin types the obvious observation, one free for interpretation of its meaning, it’s midnight here.

There’s a delayed response before Marvin receives the message, then go to sleep, old man.

Marvin responds, okay, but then he ends up staying up an additional hour, falling asleep with his cellphone pressed against his ear as he listens to Whizzer’s quiet, sleepiness-addled voice, hundreds of miles away.

:: - ::

“Who are you texting?” Jason asks abruptly, on one of their weekends.

Marvin, surprised and flustered, stops smiling down at his phone and immediately shoves the device into his pocket, answering sharply, “Nobody. What do you want for dinner?” The deflection is obvious and stilted, and Marvin visibly cringes at the shortness in his tone.

Jason’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and his curiosity—once absent and flippant—seems to intensify. Tucked inside his pocket but still visible due to the crease it makes in his pants, the phone buzzes with another message, the development not lost on either men.

Marvin coughs and says, “What about pizza?”

The topic is thankfully dropped until the next day, when Jason and Marvin are playing chess in the living room and ignoring how Marvin’s phone keeps periodically buzzing.

Jason asks, his tone not giving any of his emotion away, “Are you being weird because it’s a guy?”

Marvin nearly slams the pawn down hard enough to flip the board, “What?”

While Marvin is horrified, Jason just seems curious—if just a little uncomfortable.

“You don’t text anyone except me and Charlotte,” Jason points out, “And Charlotte is way too busy to be answering you this fast, and I’m right here. So. Is it—like—a guy?”

Marvin opens and closes his mouth several times before admitting (just as he’s about to lose his nerve), “Yes.”

Jason’s forehead creases and his mouth works. Marvin’s honesty has seemed to surprise him.

“Uh—okay then.” Jason makes his move, the motion fluid and casual, but Marvin notices that his son makes an obvious, crucial error in strategy, betraying the boy’s covert nervousness and flustered nature.

Jason looks ready to drop the subject, but Marvin asks, “Does that bother you?” Jason shakes his head quickly, and yeah, he doesn’t seem disgusted by the news.

He just seems—shocked. Pensive. Disbelieving. As if knowing that his father was gay and dating had just been an abstract concept in his mind until this very moment.

Jason thumbs his knight carefully, and after a beat of deliberation, he asks in a stilted voice, “So is this guy, like, your—boyfriend or something?”

The thought of Whizzer Brown as Marvin’s boyfriend is enough to make Marvin laugh, but he manages to reign it in. Instead, Marvin settles with a quick, firm, “No.”

Jason nods, neither looking distressed nor happy at this revelation, “Okay.”

They resume the chess game in silence, the atmosphere between them almost returning to normal.

:: - ::

It’s only been a month since Marvin has last seen Whizzer face-to-face, but it feels like an eternity. On a particularly brave (see: whisky-addled) night, Marvin straightforwardly texts, when can I see you again?

Not receiving a response right away, he adds (a bit desperately), I’ll show you that shitty arcade place that I told you about—the one with the cheat codes for the Street Fighter Game. And we can eat at a nice place with good food for once rather than having to settle for one in the morning pizza runs.

Whizzer doesn’t respond. It’s a little hurtful to his pride but the brush off is a little expected in hindsight. Marvin ignores the slight disappointed twist in his chest and just passes out on his sofa watching a Friends marathon.

That following afternoon, Marvin received a belated, next Friday night sound good?

Marvin catches himself smiling like a giddy kid in the dim reflection of his phone screen.

He types back, it’s a date then.

And then he realizes that that is quite possibly the worst way to phrase a confirmation—between them, especially.

But he doesn’t take it back.

And Whizzer doesn’t ask him to.

Chapter Text

When Marvin opens the door to reveal Whizzer—windswept, bright eyed, and handsome—at the threshold, his heart jumps to his throat.

“Long time no screw.” Whizzer points out jokingly, his lips upturning into a smile that reveals a strip of white teeth.

“I know,” Marvin agrees, “I was beginning to think that you’d forgotten about me.”

“You’re right. I was about to,” Whizzer walks over to him, slips his arms around Marvin’s neck and breathes into the hollow of his throat, “You should remind me.”

Marvin’s hands move to Whizzer’s waist, and he ducks his head to meet Whizzer’s mouth—

But then Whizzer abruptly pulls away, leaving Marvin confused and disoriented and hungry for more.

As if he recognizes the effect that he has over Marvin, Whizzer smiles, like a cat with a canary caught in its mouth, “I thought you were going to take me out.”

Marvin is surprised that Whizzer is the one to bring it up first, and he narrows his eyes at him, wondering if this is just apart of one of his little games, “I thought you don’t ‘date.’”

“I don’t get into relationships,” Whizzer corrects, lazily tracing his finger along Marvin’s collarbone, “However, I do love it when handsome men take me out and treat me nice.”

Not for the first time, Marvin wonders just what the fuck he got himself into.

:: - ::

The burger is sloppy and a little overcooked, but Whizzer doesn’t seem to be complaining as he hungrily slams it down his throat.

“You cheated.” Marvin accuses sulkily, trying not to smile as Whizzer rolls his eyes over-dramatically at him.

“You’re just all bark and no bite,” Whizzer says, “I told you that Street Fighter was basically an entire childhood summer for me.”

“You were a jock, Whizzer. Don’t you dare try to appropriate loser culture of spending an entire summer by yourself with nothing but an arcade to keep you company,” Marvin replies, “That was my life.”

And this is—nice, he supposes. To have these sort of conversations face-to-face rather than behind a screen. It’s still the same banter, stupid arguments and petty insults and continual ribbing, but it’s so much different to actually see the teasing glint in Whizzer’s eye, the amused curve of his smile, the heat of his gaze.

“Is that why you don’t like baseball?” Whizzer asks, “Because you have some stereotypical, irrational hatred for those good at sports?”

Marvin rolls his eyes, “Stop trying to be all psychoanalysis on me. I hate baseball because it’s repetitive and boring to watch.”

“Says the guy who thinks Seinfeld is a good show.”

Marvin laughs, pretending to be offended, “Oh, fuck you.”

Whizzer smiles again, softer this time than all the other ones prior.

And it’s so different, to talk face-to-face like this.

Marvin gets to experience all the small smiles and soft tones that are somehow fooling him into thinking that this is more than it really is.

:: - ::

After dinner, Whizzer drags him into one of those artsy, overpriced boutiques.

“There is no way that that’s what I think it is.” Marvin says in a horrified, awed whisper, staring spellbounded at one of the paintings of an—interesting pattern.

“It’s a painting of mini dicks.” Whizzer whispers, sounding more giddy than a boy watching his first porno, “Marvin, you have to get it.”

Marvin tears his eyes away from the painting to narrow his eyes at him, “Why me?”

“Because you kinda exude that Straight Man vibe,” Whizzer explains, “Trust me, you would get more ass if you had this framed—like on the wall right in front of the door.”

Oh yeah, I’m sure Trina will get a kick out of that.

Marvin ponders the potential of her horrified, pale face and feels a little guilty when the sight makes him laugh.

“You’re almost forty years old, Marvin,” He can imagine her scolding him, still acting as if she’s his mother, “Don’t you think it’s about time to grow up?”

Marvin looks over at the laughing, beautiful man on his arm and thinks about how they’d just spent the last three hours playing video games and eating shitty, artery-clogging fast food.

He buys the painting, in addition to a crappy Polaroid camera that Whizzer would not stop looking at.

“You really didn’t have to,” Whizzer tells him as they walk down the street, looking pleased nonetheless as he fiddles with the Polaroid, “I have, like, seven of these things at home.”

Marvin arches an eyebrow, “You like photography?”

“Oh yeah,” Whizzer nods enthusiastically, dispensing some film into the camera with the trained ease of someone who has done this hundreds of times before, “You know, if the whole baseball thing never worked out, I was gonna be a photographer.”

Marvin tries to picture it, but he can’t fathom why a handsome man like Whizzer would ever want to be behind the camera. He voices this concern, to which Whizzer just shrugs.

“What can I say? I like to admire pretty things.” As if proving his point, Whizzer holds the camera to his face and snaps a picture of Marvin under the streetlight. Marvin winces at the flash, disoriented, but Whizzer only laughs, reckless and carefree.

Standing there, their forms illuminated by the dim streetlight as the approaching night threatens to cut off their beautiful evening, they watch the photo develop.

It’s grainy and blurry and they can really only see the angle of his nose and the brightness of his eyes, but Whizzer smiles at it like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

And Marvin wants to kiss him then. And so he does.

Whizzer makes a surprised noise, but he doesn’t pull away. Rather, he wraps his arms around Marvin and leans deeper into the kiss. It’s just like all the ones before—biting and rough and passionate—but it still never fails to drive Marvin wild.

They stand there for what seems like hours, necking like teenagers and suspended in light.

“Excuse me!” A man’s gruff, insistent voice cuts through the moment and sends Marvin spiraling backward.

He wretches himself away from Whizzer and stumbles back, out of the light and into the shadows. His heart threatens to jump out of his mouth, and blood rushes to his head, and he’s so stupid—why did he think it would be okay to kiss another man out in the open like that? Stupid stupid stupid—

“Mr. Brown, I am so sorry to interrupt,” The man continues, cutting off Marvin’s tangent of fright, “But my daughter is your biggest fan, and I saw you over here, and she would never forgive me if I didn’t get her an autograph.”

“Oh.” Whizzer says, seeming casual and friendly about the whole thing, “Yeah, of course.”

Marvin’s panic fades into confusion as the man takes a picture and autograph of Whizzer, thanks him in betwixt apologizing profusely for interrupting, and continues walking away. And even though the interaction is polite and respectful and harmless, Marvin’s heart doesn’t stop racing until the man is out of sight.

“Who poured piss ants down your pants?” Whizzer jokes, looking bemusedly at Marvin. It’s then that Marvin belatedly notices that he may have made a little bit of a scene.

He debates playing it off, but Whizzer is just staring at him, as if expecting an answer.

“I thought he was going to—you know, because we were—“ Marvin can’t bring himself to finish it, feeling stupid about the whole thing altogether.

It takes a moment before Whizzer’s eyes widen in realization, “Oh. No, no—that sorta thing happens all the time. It wasn’t a—I’m sorry that he scared you like that.”

“I mean, I wasn’t scared.” Marvin denies testily, irrationally offended at the innocent apology.

Whizzer blinks at him, thrown by the sudden defensiveness, “Okay.”

The moment ruined, Marvin and Whizzer continue walking, both suffering in silence at the awkward, charged atmosphere between them.

:: - ::

Rather than take him up to the apartment, Marvin leads Whizzer to the roof of his apartment complex. They sit next to the very edge of the building, marveling at the city lights and rushing people below. Whizzer snaps a few pictures, but Marvin can tell that his heart isn’t necessarily in it. He’s thinking about something else—maybe even someone else.

“A beautiful man waiting for me in every city,” Whizzer had told him that night. Reminding Marvin that he is just one of dozens—maybe even hundreds.

Marvin wonders, quite bitterly, how many pictures of other men that Whizzer has in his collection.

“There are a lot of people out there that live in the shadows,” Whizzer comments randomly, surprising Marvin, “That are ashamed of being who they are.”

Whizzer seems to be thinking back to that moment, of being alone in the light while Marvin hid in the dark.

“So?” Marvin prompts, trying not to sound too defensive.

Whizzer looks like he has another point to make, but he abandons it for some reason. Instead, he puts on an easy smile and says pointedly, “You know, you’ve always been so adamant to know everything about me. But I don’t know jack-shit about you.”

Marvin considers telling him—about the real reason he was at that baseball game, about his failed marriage, about living in the shadows, about Jason.

He imagines being honest, being open, being in the light.

But Marvin doesn’t want to be that guy—the gay guy who wasted his youth by living in the shadows and being ashamed of himself.

Marvin wants to be the kind of guy that stays up late texting a handsome man, that eats his entire weight in curly fries, that sulks when someone beats him at a dumb arcade game, that bought a painting of hundreds of mini-dicks, that kisses handsome men under streetlights.

He wants to be that someone else. For Whizzer. For himself.

 “I’ve lived a life of more than a few regrets.” Marvin says simply after a long pause, feeling almost choked by Whizzer’s penetrating gaze locked on him.

Bathed in moonlight, Whizzer watches him, still searching for answers. And he asks, not for the first time, “What do you want out of life, Marvin?”

But that question is too hard to answer, too filled with contradictions and inconsistences and hesitations.

Because Marvin wants everything and nothing all at once, and he doesn’t think Whizzer is capable of giving him either. So, Marvin lets Whizzer give him the only thing that he can: a good time.

“This.” Marvin answers and kisses him.

Chapter Text

“You’re wearing that ?” Whizzer demands as soon as he sees Marvin at the threshold of his door, bypassing any semblance of greeting or formality, “Out in public ?”

Marvin looks down at his ( apparently ) offending attire: baggy jeans, plain white shirt, red hoodie zipped midway with the sleeves bunched up at the elbows.

He crosses his arms over his chest, trying not to appear self-conscious, “What? It’s casual wear.”

Whizzer scoffs, turning his nose up at the sight of him, “More like casualty wear.”

Marvin rolls his eyes, deadpanning, “I didn’t know that you were expecting Prince Charming.”

“Yeah. Clearly .” But Whizzer is already tucking his hands into Marvin’s back pockets and tugging at Marvin’s bottom lip with his teeth.

Marvin sighs into Whizzer’s mouth, briefly content with abandoning their plans and doing this instead, but he eventually pulls away, “I thought you were going to show me around town.”

“Oh please. It’s not like you haven’t been to Boston before.” Whizzer points out, his hands teasing the waistband of Marvin’s jeans.

Marvin stills Whizzer’s searching hands, cutting his eyes up at Whizzer and trying not to preen when the other man’s teasing brown eyes soften, “I was a little preoccupied that other visit. And I didn’t have a resident to show me around.”

He makes a fair point, but their hands remain entangled as they just stand at Whizzer’s front door, silently resenting the space between them.

After a second, Marvin clears his throat and says, “Well, I did just spend four hours on the road. Maybe a little down time is needed.”

“Make up your mind.” Whizzer scolds but drags Marvin into his house anyway, smiling in a way that makes Marvin’s heart flip in his chest.

:: - ::

“I thought weekend visits were usually out of the question.” Whizzer comments in bed an hour later, his head pillowed on Marvin’s chest.

And yeah, usually they were— because you know, Jason —but the kid had a sleepover weekend already planned at some other kid’s house.

But Marvin can’t explain that to Whizzer, so he just hums in reply and buries his face into Whizzer’s tousled head of hair.

“Mysterious.” Whizzer says with a chuckle, “You know, I actually tried to look you up.”

Marvin stills, “What?”

“You know, on all the social media platforms—after that first night at your apartment.” Whizzer clarifies, and he seems to have noticed the stillness in Marvin’s body because his tone shifts into what one would use with a wild animal backed in a corner, “You weren’t on any of them.”

“Social media isn’t my thing.” Marvin explains.

Whizzer’s voice is hesitant, serious , “Marvin, are you a criminal on the run?”

Marvin laughs before he can stop himself, “ No .”

“Spy?” Whizzer’s voice turns more playful.

Marvin scoffs, “Yes, I’ve been hired by the Yankees to steal all your baseball secrets.”

Whizzer hums thoughtfully, “I knew it.”

Marvin chuckles, “You’re trying to make me sound way more interesting than I actually am.”

“Then tell me who you are.” Whizzer replies, without missing a beat.

Marvin withdraws slightly, “Why are you suddenly so interested?”

Matching his defensiveness, Whizzer scoffs, “I’m not interested . You said it yourself: you’re not interesting .”

“God, I love your version of pillow talk.” Marvin says dryly, “So light-hearted and cozy.”

They lie there, uncomfortable and defensive and pained in the silence.

“I’m a marketing manager,” Marvin begins softly, trying not to sound hesitant or particular with the facts about himself, “My best friend is a black, Jewish, lesbian doctor. I grew up in Manhattan and have only lived in New York my entire life. Growing up, I was one of those asshole kids that always sought attention and had to have my way, and my parents didn’t discourage this behavior like they probably should have. I was a shitty kid who grew up into a shitty adult. But then, recently,  I’d like to think that I got my act together and became relatively less shitty.”

He braves a glance down at Whizzer and sees that the other man is fighting a smile, so he continues, “My favorite color is red. I like to pretend that I’m not shit at video games. I like greasy diner food.” He squeezes Whizzer in his arms, adding pointedly, “I like you .”

“And you hate baseball.” Whizzer finishes, his voice and expression different in a way that both frightens and exhilarates Marvin.

“See?” Marvin teases, “You do know me.”

Whizzer just gives a noncommittal noise and turns to lie on his side. Marvin feels a stab of rejection at his heart until Whizzer drags him to curl up behind him, slotting their arms and legs back together.

There’s a moment before Whizzer says, into the pillow rather than to his face, “You’re not a shitty person, Marvin.”

I left my kid. I left my wife.

“Not with you.” Marvin allows, breathing into Whizzer’s neck, “I like who I am when I’m with you.”

:: - ::

“I honestly think you’re pretending to be this horrendous so I’ll keep feeling you up.” Whizzer scolds as he once again fixes Marvin’s batting stance.

Marvin tries not to prickle under the dripping condescension, pointing out, “We can’t all be professional baseball players like some people .”

“Marv, I’ve seen Little League players with better form than you.”

The pitching machine whirls to life as it spits another baseball out like a watermelon seed out of its teeth. Marvin flinches and swings blindly, the baseball bat slicing through air as he hears the baseball smack the netting behind him.

“Is this what you do to your men?” Marvin asks, covering his frustration with humor, “Invite them up to Boston just to emasculate them.”

Whizzer laughs, charming and beautiful, “Yeah, how did you know?”

Marvin just shoves the baseball bat into the man’s hands, stepping aside and taunting, “Go on then. Show me how it’s done.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes but easily takes the challenge. He steps up to the plate, cockily flashing a smile at Marvin’s unimpressed face, and readies the bat in his hands. The pitching machine spews out another ball only a second later, but Whizzer swings with ease. The sound of the ball against the wood sounds like thunder as the baseball goes flying and hitting the netting at the opposite side of the cage.

Whizzer looks over at Marvin, waggling his eyebrows in that immodest, obnoxious, cute way of his.

Marvin pretends to be unimpressed, “Beginner’s luck.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, “Sore loser.”

Marvin just shrugs, unable to refute it. Instead, he just whines, “So are we done yet?”

“I feel like I’ve properly emasculated you,” Whizzer relents, “Fine. We can go get something to eat.”

They end up at a nice, horribly expensive-looking restaurant, and as they engage in petty squabbling about things that don’t matter, Marvin tries hard to not lose his train of thought.

But it’s just the vague way that Whizzer looks at him when he talks—how his eyes keep darting from his eyes to his mouth and then back again. It makes Marvin feel like a fifteen-year-old girl on her first date, wondering if the handsome boy will kiss her goodnight or not.

Which is stupid , he realizes.

But Marvin always does this: he romanticizes everything .

He romanticizes the way that Whizzer talks with his hands and how he does that half-snort when he laughs; he romanticizes the way that Whizzer’s hair sometimes flops in his face and how he never seems to be in a rush to push it back, as if acutely aware of how the sight makes Marvin’s throat run dry; he romanticizes the way that Whizzer teases him, as if it’s second-nature, as if they’ve known each other for years and years; he romanticizes the way that Whizzer looks at him, like he’s the only one in the entire universe.

“You’re such a dope.” Whizzer accuses, smirking around his cocktail.

Marvin flicks a wadded piece of straw paper at him, belatedly scolding himself for his immaturity. But Whizzer just laughs, as if it means nothing.

As if this means nothing.

But this means everything to Marvin.

:: - ::

They’re walking back to Whizzer’s house that night, looking at the night scene and laughing about things that only seem funny around midnight, when the man stops them.

“Whizzer!” And Marvin has been messing around with Whizzer for five months now; he knows the “I’m such a big fan!” tone. And this wasn’t it.

The man that stops them on the street is handsome —with big blue eyes and straight, white teeth. Marvin barely pays him any mind really, but Whizzer stills in recognition by his side.

“Hey.” Whizzer greets easily, not using his rehearsed, celebrity voice in favor of his casual one.

The man starts to say more but then, as if just noticing Marvin by Whizzer’s side, stops.

His friendly smile turns sly, knowing , “Now I see why you didn’t call me tonight. Who’s your friend ?”

And it clicks then.

“Marvin.” Whizzer answers for him when Marvin is rendered to silence.

As the two friends engage in small talk for a few minutes, Marvin feels the earth beneath him shift, and he’s unable to find his footing again until the man finally departs with cheesy farewells and call me sometime.

Whizzer tries to brush over it, as if not noticing Marvin’s sudden coldness, but Marvin just blurts out, more declarative than question, “You’ve slept with him.”

Whizzer looks at him, his brow furrowed at Marvin’s bluntness, “Uh, yeah.”

Marvin’s mouth runs dry, and he already knows the answer, but still he asks, “More than once?”

Whizzer doesn’t seem to like the expression on Marvin’s face, but he still confirms, “Yeah.”

And he’s one of the beautiful men, Marvin realizes, that await Whizzer in every city of America.

Just like Marvin.

:: - ::

When Whizzer tries to kiss him later, after they’ve made it back to his house, Marvin just pushes him away, unable to get the man’s knowing smile out of his mind.

And this is why Marvin shouldn’t romanticize because he’s just a body to Whizzer. One of dozens. Hundreds. Hell, maybe even thousands .

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Whizzer says in a groan, like he’s already over it, like Marvin’s feelings are just exasperating to him.

Marvin doesn’t trust himself to respond, so he doesn’t. Instead, he just shucks off his shoes by the door and walks over into the living room, feeling a petty sense of satisfaction when Whizzer follows him.

The once light-hearted night has been ruined as a thick, charged atmosphere steals the playfulness from the room.

As Marvin collapses on the couch, Whizzer hovers beside him, asking hesitantly, as if testing out the waters, “Do you want a drink?”

“ No .” The answer is short, clipped. Betraying more than Marvin had wanted to admit.

His shortness just seems to make Whizzer more annoyed, more spiteful . He walks over to the bar and makes himself something, huffing, “Fine. Be pissy tonight.”

Marvin gives him a vapid, sardonic smile, “Yeah. It’s not like you won’t have other options if I don’t put out.”

Whizzer’s glare is fierce, cutting , but Marvin stays firm in his resolve.

“It’s not like I kept this from you,” Whizzer points out, “You always knew that—“

“It’s different ,” Marvin cuts him off, annoyed that he even has to explain this to him, “To actually see the other guys. To—you know, be reminded.”

Whizzer narrows his eyes at him, confused, “ Reminded ? Of what?”

That I’m next to nothing to you.

Ignoring the question, Marvin tucks his hand in his pocket, determined to use his cellphone as a means of distraction against the glaring man.

However, his pockets are empty, and Marvin belatedly remembers that he had left his phone charging in Whizzer’s bedroom before they had went out for the day.

“Are you really going to ignore me?” Whizzer demands, petulant and exasperated, “Real mature. I mean, Jesus, Marvin, what do you want —”

“I just want to know how I’m different than all the others, okay?” The honesty is unintended, the words stolen from Marvin’s mouth rather than purposefully programmed, and it stuns both men into silence. And Marvin should take back the question, knowing that he probably won’t like the answer, but he doesn’t.

Instead, Marvin waits for Whizzer to reply, clinging on the hope like a buoy in turbulent waters.

Only, Marvin drowns in the silence.

Marvin sucks in a breath, and a part of him wants to say forget it and move on, but the question flies past his lips anyway, “ Am I different than all the others?”

Whizzer doesn’t even give enough of a damn to lie. He just— looks at him, wide-eyed and tight-lipped.

Satisfied with his answer, Marvin calmly stands up, turns away, and walks to the bedroom, and this time, Whizzer doesn’t follow him.

:: - ::

Marvin closes and locks the door behind him, briefly forgetting the fact that this isn’t his apartment and he technically doesn’t have the right to do these things. Out of place and out of focus, he sits down on the bed and wrings his hands together as the silence from the other room sends a bullet through his heart.

This shouldn’t be surprising . After all, Marvin knew from one day that this was all it was: fun . And Marvin himself had wanted that—or, at least, he thought he wanted that.

But maybe he just doesn’t have the kind of heart equipped for just fun.

He’s being an idiot . An over-dramatic, hot-headed idiot .

And he should probably just walk back out and play it cool, pin Whizzer to the wall and pretend that he isn’t imagining another man doing the exact same thing.

In an effort to calm his raging pulse and the increasing desire to punch a hole in the wall, Marvin disconnects his phone from the charger and unlocks it.

But when he looks at the screen, his heart drops to the floor.

Five missed calls from Jason. Three missed calls from Trina.

Panic hits him like a bucket of water, and for a few moments, all he can do is drown in the shock of it. Because something is wrong. Something is very wrong...

Finally grasping back some semblance of cognitive thought, Marvin shakily dials Trina’s number. He tries to keep his breathing even and thoughts rational, but his heart is racing and his eyes are burning and oh my god, something happened to my son. What happened to my son?

“Marvin!” Trina says, but Marvin can barely hear her over the blood rushing in his ears, “I’ve been trying to call you for hours. Where have you—“

“Is Jason okay? Please, Trina, if anything happened to him, I’d—“

“Jason is fine,” Trina assures him, her annoyance at his lack of availability briefly displaced as she adopts a comforting tone, “He just wanted to leave the sleepover party, and he wanted to stay with you since it’s the weekend. But since we couldn’t get ahold of you, he’s here with me at the house now. He’s asleep in his bedroom.”

Marvin collapses onto the bed, drowning in relief. All he can do for the first few seconds is just— breathe.

“Are you home?” Trina asks, “We drove by your apartment complex, but your car wasn’t in the parking lot.”

Marvin doesn’t even try to come up with a lie, “I’m in Boston.”

“Boston?” She exclaims, as if convinced she heard him wrong, “Why the hell are you in Boston?”

Marvin looks up at the ceiling, the silence of the house suffocating him, “I don’t know, really. It was a— mistake . I’m heading home right now, actually. I’ll pick Jason up in the morning.”

There’s a slight hesitation, an edge of concern in his ex-wife’s voice that shouldn’t be there—not after all that he’d done to her, “Marv, are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Marvin replies automatically, though inside, his head is screaming, “I’m fine.”

But he isn’t fine. He should have picked up the phone. He should have been at his apartment in New York. He should have been there for his son .

But that’s just typical—Marvin is never there when Jason actually needs him to be.

After saying goodbye to Trina, Marvin gathers the very few things that he’d brought with him. The panic residing from his chest, now all Marvin has is a light suitcase and a heavy heart.

:: - ::

“Marvin, I made cotton candy cocktails.” Marvin hears Whizzer call out as soon as he opens up the bedroom door, “Or—I tried to, at least. The recipe I found online looked really hard, so I just kinda poured us some vodka and topped it off with tufts of cotton can—“ He stops as soon as he sees Marvin with his suitcase in his hand.

“I have to go. Emergency.” Marvin says curtly, barely even looking Whizzer in the eye as he rushes toward the door.

Whizzer seems stunned for a moment before he starts following him, “Marvin, come on. Don’t be petty like this. Just sit down and have a drink with me.”

But Marvin knows that one drink will lead to two which will lead to Whizzer’s hand on his thigh which will then lead to…

Dismissing the thought, Marvin starts slipping his shoes back on, “Whizzer, I really have to go. I had a phone call and—and something came up, and—“

“And this has nothing to do with you being pissed at me for no reason, huh?” Whizzer finishes, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed.

And it’s almost insulting —how Whizzer just assumes that everything is about him. As if Marvin doesn’t have an entire life of responsibilities and obligations and people that have nothing to do with the ever-famous Whizzer Brown.

“Why do you even care?” Marvin shoots back, wrenching the door open, “I’m just one of a thousand others.”

Whizzer makes a broken noise in the back of his throat, “Marvin, you’re not—” But Marvin has already slammed the door behind him, cutting Whizzer off. At the doorstep, his hand still clamped around the doorknob, Marvin hesitates, fighting the urge to turn around and open the door and demand Whizzer to finish his sentence.

But Jason is waiting for him. And, believe it or not, Marvin’s world actually does revolve around him.

:: - ::

That morning, Marvin wakes up from the few hours of fitful sleep and picks Jason up from Trina’s house.

“I’m sorry,” Marvin says, as soon as Jason gets into the car, “I should have been there. I should have answered the phone. I should have—”

“ Relax ,” Jason says, staring at him bemusedly, “It’s not a big deal.”

But Marvin won’t allow his son to let him off the hook, affirming again, “I should have been there to pick you up. But I wasn’t, and I’m sorry.”

Locking eyes with him and noticing the dripping sincerity in Marvin’s voice and expression, Jason nods faintly, still looking a bit confused.

As Marvin drives back to his apartment complex, the car ride is silent until Marvin clears his throat and asks, “Why did you suddenly back out of the sleepover weekend?”

“Why were you in Boston?”

Marvin thankfully doesn’t slam on his brakes, though he does certainly jump, “No reason.”

Jason stares at him, not letting him off the hook for this one.

Marvin tries to think up a lie, some sort of business venture perhaps or, or something—

But he shouldn’t have to lie to Jason. Not anymore.

“There was a guy.” Marvin says carefully, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the road.

“I ruined your romantic weekend?” Jason asks suddenly, sounding almost remorseful.

“No, no, no. I wanted an excuse to leave, actually,” Marvin assures him, and, upon the burn of Jason’s gaze on him, he elaborates, “I liked him, and I thought he liked me. But I was wrong.” It sounds pathetic, and Marvin is glad that he has to keep looking forward and is spared the look of pity probably on his son’s face.

“Oh.” Jason says, pausing, “Well—he sounds like an ass.”

“Language.” Marvin says, though his scolding is a little minimized by his surprise snort of laughter.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jason smile slightly. And the knot in Marvin’s chest that Whizzer had left becomes a little bit more bearable.

:: - ::

That night, Marvin is actually attempting to make dinner as Jason watches something or another on television in the living room. He very carefully tries to chop up the peppers, but they keep coming out uneven and zagged. Fuck, how did Trina used to do this every single night?

He closes his eyes and tries to imagine his ex-wife’s technique, but all he can vaguely recall after a decade of marriage was the blinding motion of ease as she chopped. Maybe it’s in the speed, Marvin thinks to himself, and it sounds crazy but hell, Marvin promised that dinner would be done an hour ago, and Jason has already been pointedly eyeing the take-out menu for that Chinese place…

Bracing his nerves, Marvin tries to chop the peppers faster, mirroring Trina’s form and speed. And it seems to be working actually—

Until there’s a sudden knock at the door, and Marvin loses his concentration, and the knife turns and knicks his forefinger.

“Fuck!” Marvin exclaims reflexively, immediately applying pressure to the gushing appendage.

“Dad?” Jason asks, his distant voice sounding closer as footsteps make their way to the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” Marvin assures, running his open wound under the faucet, “Can you get the door?”

Through the thin wall separating the kitchen and the dining room, Marvin faintly hears Jason answer the door.

Marvin had guessed it to be only Charlotte, but when he doesn’t hear Jason’s enthusiastic greeting (because he swears, most of the time, Jason seems to like her more than him) nor the doctor’s booming voice, an inkling of panic and suspicion rises in his gut. Ignoring the still pressing pain of his finger, Marvin makes his way to the dining room as quickly as possible.

“Uh, Marvin is my dad,” Marvin hears Jason say, sounding awe-stricken and confused and vaguely standoffish, “What do you want with —”

“Whizzer?” Marvin pauses at the threshold of the door, overwhelmed by the vision before him.

Because, standing right behind Jason at the front door, is Whizzer Brown, holding an expensive bottle of red wine in one hand and a cardboard box of video games in another.

He still looks handsome, if a little frazzled, but his eyes are wide and his jaw is unhinged and he’s staring at Jason like he’s the harbinger of Death itself.

“Marvin is your — dad ?” Whizzer sputters out, choking on the word. Somehow, Whizzer manages to unglue his eyes from Jason and pin them on Marvin, and his disbelief and horror are briefly displaced by devastation and betrayal.

And Marvin imagines death to be less painful than this.

“You have a son ?” Whizzer repeats, chewing on every word. His face is twisted, like the reflection of some Fun House mirror.

His hand limp beside him, Marvin feels the rapid beat of his pulse in his bloodied finger.

“Yes.” Marvin confirms, the word extracted from his mouth with reluctance.

Suddenly, Jason’s voice cuts through the tension, “Do you two know each other?”

Whizzer’s eyes suddenly come back to focus as he turns his gaze on Jason, and he looks almost hurt to see him, to be reminded of his existence.

“No,” Whizzer says quietly, “Apparently not.”

Placing the red wine and cardboard box of video games at the threshold of the door, Whizzer, without even sparing Marvin a second glance, turns and walks away, whatever reason of him showing up apparently rendered void based on the new turn of events.

Forgetting himself, Marvin starts to rush after him, but Jason stops him.

“But you hate baseball.” Jason says suddenly, and there’s something off with his voice — Marvin can tell that immediately.

But Marvin’s thoughts are preoccupied, his priorities not being where they should be, and so he asks, perhaps a bit too harshly, “What does that have to do with anything?”

He turns to look at Jason, stunned to see his son looking like — that.

Because he looks just like Whizzer had just a moment prior.

Like Marvin has just broken his heart.

“You couldn’t even let me have baseball, could you?” Jason demands, angry and hurt.

Marvin just stares at him, dumbfounded by his reaction, “Jason, what are you even talking about?” He goes to reach for him, but Jason whirls backward, hitting his arm on the bookshelf in the process.

Jason winces and cradles his elbow in his other hand, but he recoils when Marvin tries to reach out to him again.

“Jason, come here.” Marvin commands firmly, increasing his volume when Jason ignores him and bolts off, “Jason!”

But Jason just scoffs, using a tone that Marvin hasn’t heard in over two years, the very same one that Jason had used when he’d found out that Marvin was seemingly abandoning his family, “God, Dad, why do you have to make everything in my life about you?”

Not bothering to stay and witness the consequences of his words, Jason storms off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

And he breaks Marvin just then, to the point that he doesn’t run after Whizzer nor does he chase after Jason.

Instead, he just collapses into a dining chair, barely even noticing the puddle of blood gathering at his feet.

He sits there and stares at the wall for a very long time.

Chapter Text

Not for the first time in his life, Marvin feels like a stranger in his own home.

That night, Jason stays in his room, using the locked bedroom door as a barrier, as a silencer .

And Jason wheels that silence as a weapon, takes Marvin hostage with his coldness and indifference.

It’s suffocating . It’s unbearable . It’s cruel .

It’s what Marvin deserves.

:: - ::

God, Dad, why do you have to make everything in my life about you?

When Trina went into labor, Marvin saw it as his own funeral rather than the birth of his son.

As Jason started to grow, Marvin would only look for things that paralleled himself rather than praising any sign of individuality.

When Marvin left Trina, he celebrated it as a necessary embrace of his true self rather than the dissolvement of Jason’s home life.

When Jason showed interest in something new for once, and something like baseball at that, Marvin turned the interest into another footnote in his own journey of identity.

With tears in his eyes, Jason had asked him, “ God, Dad, why do you have to make everything in my life about you?” And Marvin didn’t answer, not because he didn’t know but because he’s too much of a coward to admit it.

Because I still want it all.

:: - ::

Whizzer sends a single text message that night, around an hour after he fled the apartment and left Marvin in the mess that he made: fuck you marvin.

Not knowing how to respond to a message like that, Marvin leaves it on read and cleans up the blood on the wood-paned floor.

But he just can’t take the radio silence, so the next day, as Jason hides away in his room and refuses any attempt at communication, Marvin sits on the couch and replies: I never lied to you.

Whizzer’s reply is quick and vindictive: I don’t want to hear your bullshit technicalities.

Marvin texts back: Then why are you talking to me?

Because it doesn’t make sense. Whizzer shouldn’t be giving him the time of day. Whizzer shouldn’t care about Marvin’s explanations or excuses.

Whizzer shouldn't , but maybe he does anyway.

We’re not talking, Whizzer points out, causing Marvin to roll his eyes but smile a little despite everything.

Marvin texts: Bullshit technicalities.

Whizzer doesn’t respond, and Marvin tries to ignore the dip in his heart.

For the rest of the weekend, he’s left alone with his thoughts and mistakes.

:: - ::

Whizzer texts him Monday night.

By the candor and spelling mistakes, Marvin gathers that Whizzer might have had a few drinks before sending the message: are you maried

Marvin recalls his wedding ring, shoved in that kitchen drawer.

He replies honestly: Not anymore.

Marvin is terrified that Whizzer will poke him for more details, but instead he receives another question: whats his name

It’s concerning, how long it takes for Marvin to understand what Whizzer is asking.

He types shakily, Jason.

Whizzer doesn’t reply until hours later, at three o’clock in the morning: he looks like you

For a brief, pathetic moment, Marvin thinks that maybe everything is okay, that they are okay.

But then Whizzer texts him again that following afternoon, clear and cold and final: We shouldn’t see each other anymore.

:: - ::

Marvin should give Whizzer some space.

He just needs time to think things through and realize that this isn’t a big deal and then they can go back to how things were before—when it was just fun.

But Marvin can’t help but think back to the not-dates to dive bars and arcades and parks and overpriced antique stores, back to the teasing and flirting and laughing about nothing and everything, back to that kiss underneath the streetlight, back to the night spent on the roof of Marvin’s apartment complex.

And maybe it was never just fun.

Space would be best for both of them, really. Their romance (if Marvin could even call it that) had always burned fast and volatile, had always made Marvin feel like he’s standing in a puddle of gasoline with a lit match in his hand. It’s about time that both of them slammed on the brakes before they send themselves barreling down the highway with everything to lose.

Space would give them time to think. Hell, Marvin doesn’t even know what he wants anymore. Can he pretend like Whizzer’s other men don’t bother him? Can he stomach the thought of Whizzer disliking or even ignoring the existence of Jason? If put to the test, how much is Marvin willing to sacrifice for this man? His time? His dignity? His commitment to his son?

And hell, Whizzer clearly needs space after all of this bullshit. Marvin can’t expect someone like Whizzer— reckless, irresponsible playboy — to take this shit in stride so soon without any time to contemplate.

So yes, Marvin should give Whizzer some space.

But Marvin really wants to see him again, and since when has someone else’s feelings ever stopped Marvin from doing something he wants?

:: - ::

On Tuesday, Marvin takes off of work early and drives to Boston, showing up at Whizzer’s doorstep with nothing but fifty bucks in his wallet and a wounded pride.

When Whizzer answers the door, he looks like his first instinct is to slam the door in Marvin’s face.

“Hey.” Marvin greets awkwardly, immediately wedging his foot in the doorway as a preemptive measure.

Whizzer just seems torn, as if he doesn’t know whether he’s delighted or annoyed to see him, “Hey.”

It belatedly occurs to Marvin that, despite all of his careful planning of how he was going to explain himself, he never devised any plan to make it through the threshold of Whizzer’s front door.

Whizzer doesn’t make it easy on him, seemingly recovered from the initial shock of seeing Marvin as he asks airily, “How was the drive?” The question is a mere formality , and it sounds so unusual in Whizzer’s blunt tongue.

“Uh, well. A bird hit my windshield.” Marvin blurts out.

“Oh,” Whizzer says.

“Yeah.”

Well, this is going great so far.

Marvin decides to bite the bullet and swallow his pride, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, just one second,” Whizzer says, his voice growing hard, “I just have to hide my secret kid.”

Not deeming the retort worthy of a response, Marvin just brushes past Whizzer and walks into the house.

It’s just like he had left it, which seems so wrong somehow. It should be different . After all, everything else has changed since that night.

“So,” Marvin hears Whizzer say behind him, closing the door, “You drove all this way and you didn’t even bring me flowers?”

Marvin turns back to him, vaguely annoyed, “Is this just some big joke to you?”

“No,” Whizzer says flatly, crossing his arms over his chest, “Actually, I don’t find this funny at all.”

Marvin’s eyes and voice soften, “Whizzer—“

“God, you’re such a fucking hypocrite , Marvin.” Whizzer cuts him off, as if unable to keep up the indifference any longer. His voice is cold and brittle, with a faint tremor that betrays the hurt behind all the anger.

“All that bullshit talk about wanting to know me,” Whizzer scoffs, mocking, “ Where did you grow up, Whizzer? What are your plans for the future, Whizzer? What’s your favorite fucking color, Whizzer? And meanwhile, I apparently don’t have a single fucking clue about you .”

“You do know me.” Marvin tries to reach out to him, but Whizzer recoils. Suddenly, Marvin is reminded of Jason, but he quickly pushes that thought away before it can derail his thoughts.

“Look,” Marvin confesses lowly, unable to meet Whizzer’s penetrating stare, “ I just didn’t want you to—to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m sad. Pathetic. Damaged .”

“I’m not looking at you like that because you’re a father ,” Whizzer points out bitterly, “I’m looking at you like that because you lied about it.”

“You would look at me different,” Marvin persists, “They always do.” That was the worst part about dating. The way the men’s eyes would fill with surprise or discomfort or pity . As if Jason only served as a reminder of Marvin’s decades of suppression.

Jason never made Marvin feel ashamed of it, but the looks from those men sure as hell did.

Whizzer looks at Marvin like that now, his eyes softening as he slowly comes to realize the truth in his words.

“So maybe I would have,” Whizzer relents, but he refuses to give any more ground, “But is that such a terrible thing? Jesus, Marvin, why are you so afraid all the time?”

The zag in the conversation almost gives Marvin whiplash, “What?”

“You know, I couldn’t put my finger on it for the longest time,” Whizzer continues, looking sad - for himself, and for Marvin, and for the whole fucked up situation, “The way that you held yourself in that bar, like you were in a lion’s den; how you constantly looked over your shoulder every time you so much as touch my hand in public; the secrets —”

Marvin can’t bear it any longer, snapping, “What’s your point?”

“You still have that Closet Case mentality.” Whizzer exclaims, “God, it’s like you’re waiting to be punished for being gay.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But Whizzer has already reached out to him, taking his hand and squeezing it, and it’s then that Marvin realizes that he’s shaking.

Whizzer holds his hand tenderly, and he has stars in his eyes when he looks at him, and he’s wearing that vague look on his face. It’s ironic that now is the time that Marvin finally deciphers it.

It’s love .

But Whizzer’s accusations keep echoing in Marvin’s ears, dripping in condescension and pity, and so Marvin decides to be cruel.

“Now look who’s being the hypocrite.” Marvin says coldly, looking down pointedly at their interlocked hands.

He feels Whizzer tense and then abruptly pull away, as if repelled by him, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re scared , too, Whizzer.” Of loving me.

And he should be scared. Because Marvin always seems to break the people that love him.

“No, I’m not.” Whizzer scoffs, “You’re not very frightening , Marvin.” But his voice is slightly trembling, and he can’t stop looking at Marvin with those eyes , with that face .

And Marvin loves him, too.

Of course he does. Of course he does.

“Let’s open a bottle of wine,” Marvin proposes, giving them both an out to this fight, before they both say something that there’s no going back from, “And we can sit at the dining room, and we can ask each other questions again.”

Whizzer doesn’t agree right away. Instead, he hesitates .

Marvin has never seen Whizzer Brown hesitate before.

It’s a frightening sight.

Whizzer finally just shakes his head, as if not trusting his words to follow through with the refusal.

Marvin stares at him, shocked and confused, “Why?”

Whizzer runs a hand through his hair, saying vaguely, “Because maybe I don’t want to be reminded.”

“ Reminded ?” He repeats, “Of what?”

“That I don’t know you, Marvin,” Whizzer barks, sounding frustrated enough to punch through a wall, “That I have no idea who you are.”

But Marvin still doesn’t understand, pointing out, “Then get to know me.”

And it’s simple . Or, at least, it sounds like it is.

But Whizzer acts like he’s teetering on the edge of something massive and great, and he’s desperate to do anything—say anything—to get him back to solid ground.

Suddenly, Whizzer’s face settles into something hard and foreign and mean .

When he speaks, the words are quiet, but they explode like nuclear warheads in Marvin's ears, “Maybe I don’t want to waste the time.”

Marvin looks at him and sees a man who is afraid. And it’s almost like looking in a mirror.

“If I’m such a waste of time,” Marvin points out, but all the confidence and gusto that was in his voice only a minute prior is absent, “Then why did you even let me in here?”

“I was hoping for a quick screw.” Whizzer says coldly, almost looking bored with their conversation already, “Why else?”

Suddenly, the mirror is fractured.

And Marvin supposes that he got the answer he came here for.

Without sacrificing any more of his pride, Marvin turns and walks toward the front door.

But he just can’t leave it at that. Because Marvin always has to have the last word.

Even if it’ll cost him something greater in return.

“What do I want out of life?” Marvin says ruefully, opening the door and giving The Great Whizzer Brown one last look.

Whizzer won’t even look at him, picking at his nails with his face carefully guarded.

Marvin answers himself, “Something more than this.”

Chapter Text

Marvin should be used to Silence .

After all, he’d known it so well in his childhood, it was almost like a particularly close but quarrelsome cousin.

As his mother fluttered in and out of the house more like a guest rather than the host, as his father barricaded himself in his study and choked down pills in a halfhearted effort to add color back into his world, as the hollow-eyed maids cleaned the house and cooked him dinner, Marvin was left — young, vulnerable, and so inexplicably angry — to the mercy of Silence .

It kept him company like a friend never could; it tucked him in at night like his mother never would; it gave him an audience to throw fits and punch walls and perform like no one ever did.

At one point in time, Marvin was so used to Silence, he almost came to love it.

But. It’s different now. He’s different now.

Now, Silence is a jealous lover, driving a wedge between Marvin and the only person he loves — could ever love — unconditionally.

And so Marvin does not weep. He does not sulk.

He stops hiding behind Silence, stops letting the monster ruin his life and somehow make it seem like someone else’s doing.

Instead, Marvin murders Silence and dumps the body in a shallow grave.

:: - ::

That Friday night, as Jason immediately brushes past him upon entrance into the apartment and barricades himself in his room, Marvin doesn’t yell or scold him. He doesn’t demand his forgiveness, doesn’t ask for absolution.

Instead, he cooks dinner, and he turns on the radio, and he avoids Silence in any possible way he can.

On an ill-fated search for tinfoil, Marvin comes across a twinkle of gold that catches his eye. He digs it out of the cabinet purely on impulse, not realizing what it is until his finger coincidentally slips into the golden circle.

For a petrified, vulnerable moment of self-loathing, Marvin doesn’t take it off, wearing his wedding ring like a Scarlet Letter.

The ring itself is dirty and ill-fitting, much like his marriage had been. Marvin vaguely remembers purchasing the band at a pawn shop the day after Trina told him that she was pregnant.

Marvin idly worries the ring about his finger, the significant portion of his life that was spent wearing that ring seeming so painfully insignificant to him in this moment.

Marvin doesn’t miss the marriage; of that, he is quite certain.

No, he doesn’t miss what the ring signified , but he misses wearing the damned thing. He doesn’t really know why — maybe because it gave him a purpose of life, a place of belonging .

Quite suddenly and painfully, Marvin is hit with a memory of Jason as a toddler, mouthing at Marvin’s finger as he teethed the golden band.

Everything was once just so maddening in its convention and monotony. Marvin is driving himself half-crazy by missing it now as much as he does.

Marvin takes the ring off, hurriedly and violently — almost as if it burns. But he’s still so damn gentle and cautious as he wraps the ring in paper and fits it securely back in the kitchen cabinet.

Marvin resumes cooking, careful to not think too hard of best-forgotten memories of a perfect house, a perfect wife, a perfect life .

:: - ::

That night, after a tense dinner that echoes the ice of the Cold War, Marvin refuses to soak in Silence. He goes to Jason’s room, ignoring Jason’s pointed neglect of attention and settling down on the very corner of the boy’s mattress.

Jason barely pays him any mind, the only evidence of acknowledgement being the tightening of his grip around some nintendo device that Marvin had given to him as a sorry that I’m divorcing your mother; also, I’m gay gift (he had to settle for a present because, strangely enough, Hallmark didn’t have a card for such an occasion).

“I’m sorry.” Marvin says tightly, the apology ripped from his vocal chords almost violently.

But Jason is seemingly apathetic to his apology, as if he is determined to be unimpressed by everything that Marvin has prepared to say.

“Jason, please.” Marvin gently lays a hand on the device clutched in his son’s hand, surprised when Jason’s vice grip immediately loosens. Not taking this moment of small surrender for granted, Marvin takes the device and pushes it away.

Robbed of his diversion, Jason just stares down at his sheets, using Marvin’s own weapon of choice: Silence .

Marvin clears his throat and tries to think of a way to somehow make this any less painful.

“In my defense,” He ultimately decides to say airily, “If I had known how much you hated Boston, I would have thought twice before following him into the bathroom that night.” Jason’s eyebrows do some sort of intricate choreography that is a mixture between exasperation and disgust.

Okay, so the use of humor to handle this conflict is suddenly out of the question. Good to get that one straight out of the gate.

“It’s not about that.” Jason admits quietly and dispassionately, and Marvin can’t even process the meaning of his words for a few seconds because it’s felt like eons since he last heard his son speak (though rationally, he supposes that it really has only been a week).

Even though he has now consented to make this conversation a little less one-sided, Jason still can’t even look at him, which yeah. It hurts. But Marvin supposes that he doesn’t deserve any kind of break for this.

“Okay,” Marvin responds after he overcomes to his initial shock, trying his damnedest to be both cautious and patient, “So what is it?”

Jason picks at a fraying piece of his ratty blanket that some distant relative gave them at Trina’s baby shower years and years ago.

Marvin tries to keep his voice casual, but it still comes across as stilted and uncomfortable, “Is it — Is it the guy thing?”

Jason only rolls his eyes, “Come on. Don’t be stupid.”

Regardless of everything, Marvin smiles.

“I didn’t ‘pick’ him to spite you.” Marvin says after a beat, intent on making Jason understand that, “You do know that, don’t you?”

Jason’s hands bury in his blankets and twist .

“I know that.” Jason says, reluctant.

Marvin waits for him to elaborate.

And Jason leaves him waiting.

And Silence unshovels itself from the shallow grave, gasping for air and reaching for Marvin’s throat.

“So, are you just gonna be mad at me forever?” Marvin snaps suddenly, “Just for no damn good reason?”

Jason lets the question hang in the air and fester, lets Silence take advantage of his rage.

Sometimes it can be a little disheartening — how much Marvin’s son takes after him.

Without another word, Marvin stands up, not missing how Jason’s face twists .

“I’m not going to talk at you, Jason.” Marvin tells him calmly, although he’s feeling anything but calm, “Whenever you’re ready to tell me what’s bothering you, I’ll be there. But I’m not going to try to guess what it is you’re mad about.”

Marvin pauses, betraying his true vulnerability by giving Jason one last opportunity to confess.

But Jason just looks frozen in the moment, can only watch with wide eyes as Marvin reluctantly turns to leave. His eyes scream of thousands of words, but his lips barely sound an echo.

Marvin wants to push him into explaining, bargain with him for forgiveness, scream and yell and throw a fit until Jason rolls his eyes and gives in. But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he walks away, content with the knowledge that at least he’s extended an olive branch that Jason can either accept or set ablaze.

Just as Marvin passes the threshold, Jason suddenly blurts, “He didn't even know me.”

Marvin halts and looks back at him, confused, “What?”

Jason glares at him, eyes wet and burning.

“You were with him for months, right?” Jason says, obviously trying to hide the shakiness of voice and shortness of breath, “And he didn’t even know I existed?”

“No,” Marvin admits quietly, making Jason act like he’d been slapped, “No, he didn’t.”

Jason nods, pointing out bitterly with a slight edge of hysterics, “You wanna know why I’m pissed? Well, I guess I just didn’t know you were that ashamed of me.”

It’s quite a talent, Marvin supposes, to disappoint your son so much that he begins to believe the worst of you.

“ Jason ,” Marvin says, more breath than word, surprised at himself for not collapsing like a supernova out of desperation, “That’s not true.”

“You said you weren’t going to lie to me anymore,” Jason reminds him scathingly, “You can admit it, alright? It’s nothing new to me anyway. I’ve always just been a reminder for you. I mean, that’s why you never bring your boyfriends around me, right?”

“Jason, that’s not true — ”

“Of course it’s true!” Jason exclaims, “God, Dad, you are so selfish ! You want to be the focus of every part of my life, and you won’t even tell me that you’re dating a baseball player. How is that fair?”

Marvin admits, “It isn’t fair.” He waits for Jason to continue, but the boy is silent. He doesn’t look angry anymore — more so heartbroken .

Marvin closes the bedroom door and moves back to the place on Jason’s bed, and this time, Jason looks him dead in the eye.

Marvin begins very carefully, “I was young when your mother had you. Well, not really young,” He corrects himself, smiling a little and prodding the outline of Jason’s foot underneath the covers, “More like just an idiot .”

“I know all of this already.” Jason says, rolling his eyes.

Marvin ignores his belligerent tone, continuing, “And your mother and I were not in love, and I was not ready for that kind of responsibility, and it led me down a path that I thought I was not meant to lead. And you know what?”

Jason doesn’t prompt him, but his eyes search Marvin’s face, hanging on his every word.

Marvin answers simply, “I don’t regret any of it. And it’s all because every choice that I made led me to you .

“Kid, do you know how proud I am of you? Of the man you turned out to be? You’re everything to me, Jason. My heart bursts at the seams at the thought of you.”

Jason locks his jaw, looking like he’s trying his hardest not to cry.

“I know that I didn’t always show it,” Marvin admits softly, “But I always loved you. I was always proud of you. I always thought that you deserved the moon, Kid.”

Jason nods, though more out of acknowledgement rather than understanding.

“And I was an idiot for not telling Whizzer Brown about you. I was just…” He searches for the right word, only to have Whizzer’s accusation echo in his mind.

“I guess I was scared,” Marvin admits it aloud, overwhelmed by the honesty of the declaration, “Jason, I was terrified of living a new life. I still wanted to keep family and men separate , like I was still living a double life, but that has nothing to do with you.” He smiles a little and ruffles Jason’s hair, his heart bursting when Jason finally lets a smile creep upon his lips, “Jesus, Kid, you’re the only thing in my life that I got right .”

Jason swallows hard, the anger and anguish slowly but surely clearing from his face.

They stay like this for awhile, sitting in peace and letting emotions subside.

Jason speaks first.

“Whizzer Brown, huh?” He says lightly, “Jesus, you couldn’t settle for a nice Yankee instead?”

It’s a harmless joke, and a good one at that, but the name still hurts when Marvin hears it.

Jason notices the flash of hurt on his father’s face, and he softens his voice, asking, “So, is it over between you two or…?”

Marvin looks down to the floor.

“It’s over.” Marvin confirms, but he still scrolls through the text messages, listens to the voice mails, replays conversations, hears the ghost of Whizzer’s laugh.

Because it may be over for Whizzer — hell, according to that prick, it never even begun — but it isn’t over for Marvin.

Chapter Text

Marvin lounges on the recliner, laptop poised in his lap, and tries not to wince every time he hears Whizzer Brown’s jersey number.

“He totally sucks now.” Jason tells him flatly, sounding almost disappointed as some other baseball team shakes down the Red Sox like a ragdoll.

The announcer on the television mirrors Jason’s tone, “ — And Collins easily makes it second base. Jesus Christ, it’s like Brown is softballing his pitches to ten-year-olds.”

Another announcer pipes up, “Brown has been shooting his team in the foot recently. It’s a miracle that the Reds are still letting him pitch. I mean, this is embarrassing.”

The first announcer agrees, “And surprising, too, given his phenomenal track record. He’s going through the worst dry spells of his career. So unexpected from the Midwestern Hot Shot that we’ve all come to expect.”

Even though he promised himself that he wouldn’t, Marvin darts a glance at the television screen, his breath catching as he sees those starry eyes shining under that baseball cap visor.

Whizzer is clean-shaven, his uniform neatly pressed, his back ramrod straight; he looks like he always has — perfect .

But then Marvin looks closer, and even in the grainy quality of the television screen, he can see the tension coiled in those broad shoulders, and the sloppiness of his pitches, and that same exact mask that Whizzer wore the last time he saw him.

“I was hoping for a quick screw.” Whizzer says coldly, almost looking bored with their conversation already, “Why else?”

His words were sharp and his face was cold, but there was something in those eyes that makes Marvin just so damned hesitant to believe him.

“He needs to tighten up his throw.” Jason advises absently, chewing on the end of his pencil and staring hard at the television screen.

Marvin snaps out of his daze and thumps his son in the back of his head, saying pointedly, “Focus on finishing your homework before your mom comes. I told her that you’d be done by the time she came to pick you up.”

“Sounds like you lied to Mom,” Jason says, ever the smartass, “How is that my responsibility now?”

“Jason.”

“ Okay . Just let me wait until commercial.”

Whizzer throws another pitch, and the batter hits it with ease.

Jason sighs. The announcers wince. Whizzer frowns. Marvin watches.

:: - ::

“I’m not going to do it.” Marvin says to himself resolutely, glaring down at his phone like the succubus that it is, “It’s pathetic . And believe it or not, I’m better than that .”

The phone continues to rest on the comforter of his bed, its apathy to Marvin’s struggle actually insulting .

Marvin runs a hand through his hair, “I mean, it’s already over, you know? I gave him a chance. He said he wasn’t interested. That’s it — end of story.”

The phone sits there, taunting him.

Marvin continues to talk (as if he’s not alone in his apartment and it’s eleven o’clock in the goddamn night and he’s forty goddamn years old ), “ I’m not the reason that he suddenly sucks at baseball, you know? And — And even if I was , it’s not my problem! He made damned sure to make it not my problem. And you know? If it isn’t my problem, then I don’t care.”

The phone cultivates an air of disbelief.

Marvin narrows his eyes at it, affirming, “No, seriously, I do not care. At all.”

The phone just gives him silence.

Marvin’s hand twitches at his side even as he scoffs, “He’s not going to respond. I’ll just look stupid .”

The phone doesn’t disagree with him.

Silence starts to climb inside through his bedroom window, threatening Marvin’s calm facade.

The phone lights up and Marvin immediately picks it up without a second thought, only to find it to be a stupid news notification.

Well, since it’s already in my hand…

Marvin hesitantly goes to his messages, smiling at Charlotte’s last message ( Not to be straight but Nathan Fillion owns my ass ) and cringing at Jason’s last message ( I’m pretty sure Columbus wasn’t gay, dad ) and then —

And then, there’s Whizzer’s last message:

We shouldn’t see each other anymore.

Marvin’s read it dozens of times at this point, but it still hits him like a shotgun shot through the heart all the same.

He almost chickens out of it, like always , but somehow he gathers whatever remaining courage he has left and sends Whizzer a text message.

He ends up typing the first thing that comes to mind: Jason says to tighten up your pitch. Hopefully you know what that means because to me, it sounds like a euphemism for something that my twelve-year-old son should NOT know anything about.

The phone suddenly feels to hot in his hands and Marvin shoves it in his bedside drawer, immediately sick with regret.

He’s not going to respond. He’s not going to respond. Jesus Christ, what if he responds?

Trying to chase away anxiety, he goes to bed soon afterwards, and he dreams of mouthy, big-haired pretty boys whose lips form his name in a way that no one else’s ever have.

:: - ::

He checks his phone in the morning.

He has no new messages.

:: - ::

Marvin though that he had salvaged the remnants of his pride, but suffice it say that he actually jumps when he hears his phone ding that afternoon.

With a sinking heart, he realizes the text is from Jason: he’s looking better this game. Coach must’ve told him the same thing I said.

The text message initially puzzles him, enough so that Marvin disregards all coherent thought and turns the television on to the sports channel.

He sees Whizzer Brown — hair fixed, uniform neat, back straight — on the pitcher’s mound, but rather than weakly pitching like he’s giving some unenthusiastic handjob, his pitches have phenomenally improved (so much so that even Marvin can tell).

Marvin also notices that Whizzer keeps glancing at the camera, as if searching for someone’s eyes through the dark lense.

Whizzer strikes out another batter. The announcers are astounded. The crowd is in a frenzy.

Marvin is — thinking .

:: - ::

That night, he tries an experiment.

He texts Whizzer: thank god you stopped sucking. I mean, if you’re going to make me watch BASEBALL, at least make it easy to root for you.

He waits an hour, but no response comes.

He tries again, from a different angle: though I never watch for the playing i guess. I just wanted to see you.

He waits another hour. Still, nothing.

And all he wants is confirmation that Whizzer is reading these messages, that Whizzer hasn’t changed his number, that Whizzer somehow still cares even though he’s trying his damnedest not to show it.

He sends one last message before going to bed: wear your baseball cap backwards tomorrow. That way, I’ll know I’m not just talking into dead air. And you’ll look like a douche, which will also be a plus.

The text message remains unanswered, but that following afternoon, Whizzer is on television with his baseball cap backwards, a tuft of hair sticking out of the empty space of the back of the hat.

As soon as he sees him, Marvin pulls out his phone and texts him, knowing that he’ll read it later: i was right. You look like a douche.

Later, as he’s turning in for bed, Marvin sends another message, hoping that his vulnerability will be rewarded: I’ve missed you.

Whizzer doesn’t answer.

And Marvin is okay with that.

...Sort of.

:: - ::

He tells Whizzer all about it, you know. About Trina and his years-long attempts at suppression. About Mendel and his continual journey of self-acceptance. About Jason and his pride at having done at least one thing right in his life.

He tells Whizzer all about it, not so much seeking absolution as giving Whizzer what he deserves.

The truth . Whizzer deserves the truth.

Every night, Marvin texts Whizzer — sometimes, it’s explanations; sometimes, it’s apologies; sometimes, it’s inane jokes that Marvin hopes make Whizzer smile down at the screen of his phone — but Whizzer has yet to answer any of them.

And it’s starting to feel like Marvin is chasing after a ghost, as if Whizzer is becoming more of an abstract concept rather than the man that Marvin shared a bed with so many months ago.

He realizes that this habit might not be healthy in the slightest.

But Marvin keeps trying.

And Marvin keeps waiting.

:: - ::

He tries goading Whizzer into responding: DON’T TEXT ME ANYTHING IF YOU AGREE THAT CROCS WERE THE PINNACLE OF FASHION.

He waits on pins and needles but sadly the bastard is as stubborn as he is handsome.

Marvin sends another message, admitting: You know, that was a hollow victory at best.

:: - ::

I was scared, Marvin admits one night, typing with shaky fingertips, I wanted to live in a dreamlike fantasy with you where there were no consequences and nothing was real and I could be anyone else. And that’s why I lied to you, Whizzer. I just didn’t think that you could ever like who I really was. Because I myself didn’t like who I was.

He almost leaves it at that before a strange impulse overcomes him. Marvin adds: But I don’t think I’m afraid anymore.

:: - ::

He’s texting Whizzer about the surreal dream he’d had the night before when it just hits him.

And it’s overwhelming — the feeling of finally being able to let go.

Marvin puts his phone down gingerly and walks to the kitchen. He opens the drawer and digs out the wedding band, pinching it between two fingers and holding it up to the light.

For a long time, all he’s felt toward the object was despair and shame and longing. For a long time, he couldn’t bear to wear it but couldn’t necessarily get rid of it either.

He looks at it now. He feels nothing.

It’s just a band to him. The self-imposed symbolism has somehow become scrubbed clean from the object, subsequently removing any significance from the ring that it once held for Marvin.

Marvin walks over and tosses the wedding ring into the garbage can.

And it feels like nothing but it is everything all at once.

:: - ::

That last night, Marvin becomes sick and tired of talking to ghosts.

On a quiet evening, with no baseball games to look forward to on the off-chance that Whizzer shows that he cares, Marvin texts: Remember what I told you once? About how I’ve lived a life of many regrets?

He doesn’t even bother to wait for the response that never comes: I just want you to know - even after everything - I don’t regret any of it. I don’t regret you, Whizzer.

And Marvin hits send. And Marvin is ready to let this last ghost go too.

:: - ::

Marvin is awoken at three o’clock in the morning by the blare of his cellphone and the aggressive buzzer of his apartment.

Bleary-eyed and half-cognizant, Marvin answers his cellphone first, but he barely gets his mouth open before the person on the other line speaks.

“Let me in, Marvin.”

Marvin turns white, like he’s just heard a ghost.

Whizzer takes his silence as a sign of cruelty rather than shock, “Marvin, please."

Marvin swallows the bolder in his throat, saying hoarsely, “Give me a minute.”

He throws on the nearest pair of underwear that he can find and checks himself in the mirror of the dark screen of his phone. He hasn’t shaved in days, and he hasn’t gotten much sleep lately, and he’s suddenly so pissed at Whizzer for not giving him a heads up before making stupid grand gestures like this.

Meanwhile, Whizzer continues to press the buzzer like a child on the verge of a meltdown, further adding to Marvin’s sleep-addled annoyance.

Accepting that he can’t do anything more than feebly fix his mussed hair, Marvin finally goes to his apartment door and lets Whizzer into the building with a press of the button.

It isn’t long before Whizzer is pounding at his door, loud enough that it makes Marvin abandon his half-formed plan of leaving him waiting just as he’s made Marvin wait for the last couple of weeks.

Marvin opens the door and drags Whizzer inside, hissing, “What the hell is wrong with you? Jesus, you have the grace of an elephant!”

Marvin’s hands are balled up in Whizzer’s flimsy jacket; Whizzer’s hands are clutching Marvin’s biceps. Their faces are only a foot apart. Neither man makes a damned move to change any of it.

Marvin tries to recall that fleeting feeling that he’d felt only hours prior. He was ready to let go, wasn’t he?

But Whizzer is here now, and Marvin is holding onto him like a promise, and Marvin couldn’t even fathom tearing his hands away from this.

Whizzer looks at him with stars in his eyes, his face a shining beacon to Marvin’s darkest night. His voice is desperate, pleading , “I want you to ask me.”

Marvin blinks, all expectations abruptly shattered by confusion, “Huh?”

“The question,” Whizzer says testily, as if he isn’t saying the vaguest fucking thing in the universe, “Ask me it.”

Marvin really wants to play along, but he can’t if Whizzer won’t show him the steps, “Um...How was the drive?”

Whizzer’s soft look briefly devolves into a glare.

“It’s the fucking question, Marvin,” Whizzer says tightly, “The question that I’ve always asked you since the very beginning — at your apartment, on your roof, at my house. The question that you’ve never had the guts to ask me after that first night at your apartment.”

Oh.

Marvin licks his cracked lips, and when he asks it, he’s not afraid of the answer anymore, “What do you want out of life, Whizzer Brown?”

Whizzer finally smiles, relieved and happy and loving, and Marvin leans in to kiss him just as Whizzer murmurs the words out, “I want you .”