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It is one thirty-six am. Usually, by this time, Whizzer is stumbling home, half-drunk and sated; or perhaps, he’s still in the club, pounding back the free drinks and trying to catch eyes with a handsome, dark-eyed man in the corner; or, he’s pressed up against the mattress, another’s lips and hands pressed up against his skin; or, hell, maybe he’s turned in for the night, tangled up in the sheets, cold and alone and just fine (Whizzer is always just fine - even when he really isn’t).
But tonight, it’s one thirty-six am, and Whizzer has another man - dark-eyed, handsome - lying in his bed, tangled in his sheets, face open and body warm.
They’d finished all that they were going to do, remnants of their time spent together in a dirty wash rag that Whizzer had already tossed across the room, but Marvin makes no move to redress and stumble home. Instead, he stretches out on Whizzer’s dingy bed as if it’s some Persian rug, his movements languid and careless. Whizzer’s glad that it’s dimly lit in the room right now because it belatedly occurs to him that he’s staring.
“You honestly think the tie is ugly?” Marvin says suddenly, and his voice startles Whizzer so much that it takes him awhile to remember their earlier conversation before clothes were shorn and mouths were bruised.
“Hideous,” Whizzer whispers, as if any octave higher will shatter the threadbare wall that separates the two of them from the weight of reality, “I usually wouldn’t even spit on a man wearing that.”
Whizzer half-expects, half-hopes Marvin will take the bait and pick a fight, but he only laughs, the playfulness side of himself beating out the cruel side this time.
“I’m glad that I’m different then.” Marvin says, and he’s not even touching Whizzer but it feels like he's just knocked the breath out of him.
“Yeah,” Whizzer agrees softly, reluctantly, “I guess you are.”
It’s one forty-two am. Marvin has yet to shuck the sheets off in an over dramatic, grandiose gesture and make an exasperatingly long exit. The absence of routine makes Whizzer tense and fidget.
He supposes that he could ask Marvin to leave.
But he doesn’t.
“It’s late.” Whizzer says instead. Not so much of a demand or passive aggression but just a - reminder.
Marvin sighs and turns over to lie on his side, his back facing Whizzer. He doesn’t respond, as if he’s waiting for Whizzer to say the words that Whizzer so desperately wants to.
“Go home, Marvin,” He imagines himself saying, can even taste the words almost, “Go home to your family.”
“She doesn’t wait up for me anymore.” Marvin says quietly, sounding strangely relieved and melancholic at the same time.
Whizzer doesn’t know what to do with that information so he shoves it in a drawer, out of sight and out of mind.
Whizzer can't really tell what the man was expecting out of a response, but Marvin seems to take his silence as an attack, his back muscles tensing. Abruptly, he rolls back over to face him, his facial expression obscured in the darkness.
“This mattress is shit,” Marvin says bluntly, “Remind me to take you out and buy you a new one.”
See, this is comfortable. This kind of talk makes Whizzer stop clenching his teeth and knotting his hands.
Whizzer reaches over and traces the line of Marvin’s jawline, playful and reckless as he mocks demurely, “What will it cost me?”
Marvin stalls Whizzer’s hand before it reaches his lips, slightly pushing it away from his face so he can thread their fingers together. Whizzer’s heart jumps to his throat as his mind blanks.
“You sound drunk when you’re tired.” Marvin whispers, laughing a little, and it drives Whizzer so fucking wild - how he can sound so condescending and yet so utterly charming.
“Right now, I’m both.” Whizzer says, and it’s not really a lie because right now, he is intoxicated by the shadowy visage of the man in front of him.
Marvin rubs Whizzer’s knuckles with his fingers. Whizzer watches him and half-thinks of a way that he could escape his own fucking apartment.
“You’re less of a smart-ass than usual,” Marvin murmurs idly, “Got big ideas stirrin’ in that pretty little head of yours?”
“Nope,” Whizzer says stiffly, a challenge in his voice, “I’m just a pretty face, aren’t I?”
Marvin squeezes his hand - once, twice, three times.
“Yeah,” Marvin whispers, though it’s more of an absent confirmation than one of anything genuine.
Whizzer should ask him to leave.
He doesn’t.
Whizzer should leave.
He doesn’t.