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Tom cradles absolution and fault in the palm of his hand. A second chance at forgiveness or a broken man telling him the worst isn't over yet. It's anyone's guess. Bleary eyes study the glow of the screen as it rings and rings and rings and the sound is amplified and Mark looks so fucking happy in his contact photo.
Fuck.
It's a picture he keeps hidden behind a pin number though it could easily pass as ordinary to anyone else. Only he and Mark know the story behind it. The phone rings once more; taunting him. On the screen is a closeup of Mark with sleep ruffled pink hair and soft blue eyes, silver earring glinting and grainy, sleepy smile on his face.
-
"Tell me you love me," Tom murmured, phone in hand. "Here, look at me. Say I, Mark Alan Hoppus, am madly in love with Thomas Matthew Delonge and I want him to be my boyfriend and have my babies and suck my dick. Say it."
Mark smiled at the phone, dopey and half asleep, pillow crease on his cheek. "I love you Tom," he whispered.
Their eyes met and held briefly as Tom snapped the photo. He could feel his cheeks heat up under the weight of all that attention. Damn Mark and his sappiness always catching him off guard. He had enough time to glance away and save the photo before the phone was launched across the room and Mark was shoving him back against the mattress.
"Boyfriends are supposed to wake each other up with blowjobs," he said with a mischievous grin. "That's the first rule and I'm afraid you're violating it. Sorry baby but you leave me with no choice but to violate you."
"I don't remember that being in there."
"It is."
"Oh is it?"
"Yep," Mark replied, lips trailing down Tom's chest. "Ooh it's so hard," he sang off key in between kisses, "your dick is too hard...to follow the rules. Oooh now I have to violate you."
Tom squirmed and giggled under him, fingers in Mark's hair. Just as a warm mouth pressed against his hipbone, Tom hooked his leg around Mark's and flipped them, pinning him to the bed. "Not if I get to you first."
-
The memory stings. Alcohol to a wound. He white knuckles the phone and contemplates tossing it across the room, smashing it with a bottle, drowning it in the dredges of yesterday's wine.
It's the third time Mark has called in the past three hours. It rings continuously each time and Tom lets it. He'd cried after the first call, cried even harder when Mark didn't bother leaving a message. Even a punctual fuck off forever and die would've been better than silence. Anything but the quiet.
The second time, he'd popped open a fresh bottle of red and chugged it.
The phone rings a final time and Tom's stomach lurches. This is giving up, isn't it? Didn't he want this? Didn't they both need a break? Six months, right? That's what they'd agreed upon. Six months to rest his back, spend time with his family, bullshit excuses - six months to detox from Mark. Its been roughly four months and he's pretty sure this is what dying feels like.
Tiny white pills chased with booze, body aches, sleeping in the spare room, masturbating to a ghost that might or might not visit when the lights go down. Scrambled words, checking the phone, avoiding Jenn, making excuses. Wine. God is a man. God is inside of him. Mark is telling lame jokes in his dreams. Hateful moonlight spilling through the window. Pills. A shitty vacation from reality.
Dying is a slow process.
He stands and regrets it immediately as his vision swims. Too much alcohol, too little food. Candy counts, doesn't it? There's a pack of Sour Patch Kids somewhere around here or maybe he gave them to Jonas. His recollection is fuzzy. Mark didn't leave a message did he? Why didn't he, why would he-
The phone chirps.
Surely his imagination is playing tricks on him. He's hearing things. Mark doesn't care, doesn't love him, doesn't miss him, loves her, loves his family. What would he even say if they were to speak? Tom pockets the phone and shuffles through the house, down the hall and through the door to the safety of the night sky. An oasis. If it's bad, he can fall apart under a blanket of pure white stars. Under the same sky.
He sinks into a lawn chair and pulls up voicemail before he can talk himself out of it.
There's a block of silence for a moment and the sound of someone clearing their voice. Tom holds his breath.
"I can't sleep," says a familiar hoarse voice. Tom's chest aches. Silence again, followed by a sniffle Mark attempts to cover up with a cough. "Tom..." A pause. "I thought you'd be up since you usually...I don't know. Ignore this. I can't- I'll let you go. I lov- shit."
The message ends abruptly.
Hands shaking, he replays the message. Twice after that.
Ringing-
Ringing-
It's instinct to call him back. To comfort. To grovel. To cry. To prove they're not alone as long as they have this. To share a sky as the world sleeps.
Ringing-
"...you're awake."
Tom's voice cracks and he can hardly speak around the knot in his throat. He has to say it though, this he's sure of.
It all tumbles out in a rush, "Iloveyoutoo."