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It’s 9:45 on a Wednesday night and there’s an elephant onesie on Gary's lap, and a puppy resting on his bare feet. The television's on mute and the only light in the room is a lamp by the corner, dimmed down to the point where the walls are a hazy golden hue and Gary's eyelids feel heavy with every passing moment. He only has a few more clothes to fold, but they all belong to Pammy. And because she’s Mark's daughter that means Gary's bound to have at least five tutus and eighty years’ worth of Halloween costumes to deal with.
Which makes no sense whatsoever because Pammy's two years old. She’s been alive for two Halloweens, neither of which she can even remember—because she’s two years old—but somehow she has an entire dresser of ridiculous outfits that Mark's bought for her. Gary can’t step out of the house without his daughter dressed like a giraffe or a strawberry or whatever her latest fascination is. Last Friday it was bunnies. Gary is secretly hoping that Pammy sticks with her habit longer, only because she looked so damn cute in her fuzzy little ears and grey tights. She’s a miniature version of Mark so she looks like an angel no matter what she’s wearing, but Gary is only slightly biased when it comes to bunnies. Just the smallest bit.
It would help if she didn’t have Mark wrapped around her pudgy little fingers, though. Maybe then Gary would have someone to help him with the laundry instead of spending the last hour and a half reading Miffy and the Zoo. (And rereading, then reading again, and then rereading it a fourth time after a potty break because Pammy's still not asleep.)
He’s starting to understand what the lads were on about all those years ago, but Gary's almost positive that the control he had over Mark when they first started dating can’t even shed a light on Pammy's reign these last two years. He’s officially been replaced, but it doesn’t sting too much. Pammy's got Mark wrapped around her other finger, so Gary knows what it’s like to spend close to an hour reading about animals and planets. It was his turn last week, anyway.
By the time Gary is down to the last piece of clothing it’s just past ten and there’s the soft thudding of footsteps upstairs, Arthur moving sleepily on his feet. He stacks the last tutu with the rest of Pammy's clothes and sits back, sagging into the cushions of the couch. It’s the first quiet moment he’s had all day, he realises. These few minutes—the ones in between the kids having finally fallen asleep and Mark puttering about upstairs before making his way down—are the only moments he has solely to himself. It’s not like he needs an escape from his husband and children, but a minute to just breathe is always nice. Jason's always going on about silence being golden or whatever and fatherhood has drilled that message home for Gary.
So he shuts his brain off, lets himself sink into the couch, and not think for the next four and a half minutes. If he listens closely enough he can hear the almost-silent buzzing of the muted television, Mark opening and closing the drawers of their dresser, the wind howling through the kitchen window. It’s peaceful, soothing, and it feels like hours before the wooden floors creak and Mark settles down beside him.
“You ready to go?”
Gary exhales deeply, but doesn’t say a word. He can feel the heat of Mark's body radiating onto him, begging him to come closer, to touch; always tempting him in.
So Gary does. He shuffles around, eyes still closed, until his back rests against Mark's chest. He can feel Mark's heart beating against his temple, soothing away the dull throbbing of his headache from earlier in the day.
“Gimme five more minutes and I’m good,” he mumbles into the fabric of Mark's shirt. “You drive, though. I can’t promise I won’t crash.”
“S’okay. Katie's said Howard be out of the shower in a few and he’ll pop right over.”
“Mmm,” Gary hums. “Good ole’ Howard.”
He nuzzles closer, rubs his cheek against Mark's chest. His husband smells like fabric softener and Pammy's wild berries shampoo, a combination that Gary's come to call home over the last few years. It’s like with every baby Mark's taken on a new scent. Jude gave him sweat pea and vanilla, Skyler brought them the simplicity of sweet apple, and now Pammy's got herself and Mark clinging on to her wild berries. He’ll always smell like Mark underneath—soft skin and subtle cologne—but it’s almost as if Gary can smell the life that they’ve built together when he nuzzles close and kisses him. Different layers of sweetness, each light and airy on his skin. And when Mark's lonely, there’s also the occasional scent of Gary's body wash or cologne instead of his own.
Gary yawns long and with his whole body before sitting up and stretching his arms over his head. He blinks a few times, vision adjusting to the dim light of the living room. He’s too comfortable to get up, it seems, but he knows he doesn’t have a say in the matter.
“Okay, okay, I’m good. Let’s go before I change my mind.”
“You say that every time,” points out Mark.
“I know, but I mean it this time.” He forces himself off the couch and puts his hand out for Mark. “I’m an old man, Marko. I can’t keep up with you and your eternal youth, whatever you’re on.”
Mark places his hand on Gary's and pulls himself up. “You’re 35, you’re not—”
“Don’t,” Gary threatens, quickly throwing a hand over Mark's mouth and shutting him up.
It makes Mark giggle in response, the opposite of what Gary was aiming for. It’s kind of ridiculous that his husband thinks no longer being in his twenties is the end of the world, so much so that he refuses to ever bring up his age.
It’s so ridiculous, Mark thinks. Gary in his thirties is, everything Mark's wanted for as long as he can remember. The thick muscles of his arms and the hard line of his jaw. A beard Mark can nuzzle against and kiss until it leaves his skin stinging and bright red. Gary is his husband, the father of his children, and he’s a man. He’s 35 and Mark is in a constant state of breathless horniness when he looks at Gary now, like he’s 17 again and being kissed by a boy for the first time. He loves that Gary's 35, and wants to remind him every day because that’s just another year that he’s been in Mark's life. 365 more days of kisses and raising their children with his best mate.
Thirty-five is great.
Mark kisses Gary's palm and pulls it away from his mouth, laces their fingers together instead. He doesn’t mention 35 again, just grabs the keys on the coffee table and kisses the corner of Gary's mouth. There’s still the fluttering butterflies in his tummy, though, and the stupid grin on his face when he lets Gary lead them out of the house. He has to physically refrain from gluing himself to Gary's back the moment they step out. The walk to the car is too short and Mark doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop once he starts. Instead, he settles on squeezing Gary's hand and kissing the back of his bare neck right above the collar of his jumper.
“Is this mine?” he asks as he opens the driver’s door.
It’s not like he can differentiate between his and Gary's clothes any more, but sometimes he likes to ask just to know for sure. There’s a huge difference between thinking maybe Gary's wearing my shirt? and knowing that when his husband walks into a room, anyone with eyes can put one and two together to realise who those clothes belong to, who Gary belongs with.
Gary gets inside the black Mercedes slowly, noting in the back of his head the way Mark still holds onto his waist as he steps up. Even subconsciously, Mark still takes care of him in all his little ways.
“Your daughter threw up on mine earlier,” Gary explains when he settles in. “Feel free to take up all charges with her.”
“Maybe she just likes seeing her Papa in Daddy's clothes.”
“Maybe,” Gary turns to face him, “You should start the car already and stop projecting your kinks onto our children.”
“I can’t be blamed for their great taste,” Mark tries to poorly defend himself. It doesn’t really work because technically he’s to blame for any taste that Pammy has.
Gary raises an eyebrow. “I've just spent the last hour folding ten pairs of tutus and an elephant onesie, Mark. It worries me that you take any pride at all in her ‘taste.’”
Mark fixes his husband with a frown and crosses his arms. “Excuse me? you bought her that onesie for Christmas, so don’t you put that one on me, Barlow.”
Well, then. That shuts Gary up on that matter. He fish mouths for a second before giving up and putting his seatbelt on, turning to face the front of the car.
“You can get in whenever you please, mate,” he says. “It’s not like we have things to do or places to be.”
“Alright, alright, Jesus.”
Mark sneakily kisses him on the cheek, feeling Gary smile into it reluctantly while he breaks out into a small chuckle himself. Eventually he gets his shit together long enough to get into the passenger’s side seat, and Gary pulls out of the driveway with practiced ease. Mark rolls the windows down immediately and as they drive down the dark streets, the thick summer air blows against their heated skin and cools them down. It’s a relief to finally be able to turn the air conditioning off and inhale the fresh air of June, a little damp and chilly, but freeing nonetheless.
It’s a short drive, no more than eight minutes at this time of night, and they don’t really speak. Not that they ever do, but tonight just feels different for some reason. They’ve been doing this same thing for years now, varied at different points in their lives, but it’s been the same routine for a little over eight years years nonetheless. Maybe when they were drunk or extremely horny—back in the old days, as Mark jokingly refers to it—there was more conversation and drunken giggling, a loud, excitable force that radiated off the both of them and made the car ride or short walk a lot different. Things have changed since then, though, and that’s also okay.
Maybe it’s just the summer air mingling with nostalgia, or maybe it’s Mark's warm palm on his knee, but Gary feels himself shiver when he makes one last turn and drives forward to park the car. This is his life, he realises. This is…This small, trivial, hour-long task is the highlight of his week. It’s Mark and Gary for over eighteen years now.
“You ready, Marko?”
Mark shakes his head into focus. “Yeah, yeah. M’ready, let’s go.”
Gary turns the car off and steps out, walking over to Mark's side immediately. As he helps his husband out of the car, Mark is overcome by images of Gary throughout the years, images of them at every moment of their lives. Maybe when he was 16 and being kissed by a pretty boy with soft hair he didn’t think about what the next eighteen years of his life would look like. Probably didn’t even think that he’d be kissing that same boy for the next eighteen years—and then some—probably couldn’t even believe that he was getting a kiss at all, much less by a boy like Gary, who was well out of his league then and wasn't even in the same universe as Mark now.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Gary mumbles as they start walking toward the entrance. There’s the slightest hint of nervousness in his voice, like he’s worried that Mark's noticed another grey hair or that he can’t stop staring at the bags under his eyes because they’re so ghastly and unattractive.
Mark fits his hand inside the back pocket of Gary's trousers and presses himself closer. “Sorry,” he apologises softly, though he’s not. “You make it hard not to.”
Gary chuckles dryly, shaking his head. “You’ve already made an honest man out of me, mate, there’s no need for the wooing.”
“I like the wooing.”
“I like the wooing too, but save it for the bedroom at least. Or, you know, not on a Wednesday night in the parking lot of a grocery store, darling.”
Mark grabs a cart with his free hand as they step inside the deserted store, an idiotic grin on his face. “I distinctly recall a few activities that would—”
“Mark—” Gary hisses, pinching one of Mark's nipples quickly. “You promised not to bring that up.”
Mark retaliates by squeezing his bum and then immediately standing on his tippy toes to press a kiss to Gary's temple to cancel out his raunchiness. “I won’t, I won’t, I promise.”
“Let’s just get your bloody groceries and get home before you come in your pants like a thirteen year old,” Gary huffs.
“Again.”
Mark looks up at him and his lips are pursed, cheeks hollowed out as he tries not to grin as much as he wants to. “Again,” he agrees, picking up on the specific incident that Gary's referring to.
That was so long ago and Mark's come in his pants so many times over the years that Gary's kind of surprised he can even remember that incidence amongst all the others. It says a lot about the man Gary's turned him into that Mark finds that sort of thing romantic. Awfully heartwarming and everything, that his husband can remember in detail every time he’s jizzed himself like a thirteen year old.
“What do we need, anyway?” Gary asks as they walk toward the veggies. “Cereal? Milk? Eggs?”
“I have a list on my phone, hold on.”
Before Mark can move, Gary's already digging his hands into Mark's pocket and pulling out his phone. Mark can see the exact moment that Gary notices his wallpaper, a picture of Gary and Pammy eskimo–kissing at Jude's birthday. His face shifts almost instantly, eyes going soft and cheeks pinched pink as he runs his eyes and fingers over the screen, probably taking in every detail of the photo over and over again. Mark lets him. He hooks a thumb into Gary's jeans and pulls him closer, until he can physically feel his husband’s muscles loosening. Gary only refreshes the screen twice before finally putting in Mark's passcode and pulling up his notepad, the smallest of regrettable sighs slipping from his lips as he does so.
In between an entry of Radiohead's song lyrics and the schedule to Skyler's piano lessons is their grocery list, the same place it always is.
“We’re out of oranges again?” scoffs Gary as he scrolls through the list. “And why do we need more Marmite? I just bought some last week—who the hell is eating Marmite in our house anyway? I’ve yet to see any of the kids go near that shit.”
Mark plucks his phone out of Gary's hands and kisses his temple again. “Jude needs it for a ‘project,’ he says. I decided not to ask about it.”
“Seems like a smart decision.”
“It will be until neighbours come running again. Did you know the Turner's still bring up the volcano project you helped Jude with last spring? This entire neighbourhood probably thinks we run a circus, Gary.”
Gary giggles to himself as they walk past the veggies and then the bakery, now closed and nearly empty. That’s the downside to going grocery shopping late at night, but there are so many positives that it doesn’t really bother Gary that he’s missing out on a fresh baked pie or whatever. That’s what he has Mark for, anyway.
“I mean, they’re not that far off,” he hums, pushing the cart toward the cereal aisle. “We’ve got three kids and Jason living next door. They’re lucky Robbie and Howard still live in the city or this neighbourhood would be properly fucked. Text Howard and see if he’s at the house yet, will you darling?”
Gary stops the cart in the middle of the aisle and turns around in Mark's arms, watching his blue eyes scan across his phone.
“He just checked in on them, said we’re out of apple juice and to bring more,” Mark snickers with a roll of his eyes. “Bloody Howa…—”
“Are you just saying that because you forgot to add that on your list?”
Mark peeks over the top of his phone to look at Gary, a sly and knowing grin on his husband’s face. It’s nearly impossible for Mark not to break out into a smile with the way Gary leans over and kisses him on the cheek like he still finds it hopelessly charming the way Mark always, always forgets just one item on his list when they go grocery shopping. They’ve been doing this for years now and maybe Gary's favourite part will always be this little slip-up of Mark's, how it’s a constant in his life just like the chore itself.
Eighteen years later and everything is still the same, except now they’re feeding three extra mouths—that don’t belong to Robbie, Howard or Jason—and Mark's no longer a blushing, cherubic darling frantically scrolling through his phone.
Now he’s Gary's spouse, frantically scrolling through his phone.
“I can’t believe I forgot apple juice,” Mark frowns. “Skyler's been pestering me to get some all week. He wrote it on the fridge list and everything.”
His eyebrows are furrowed deeply, one hand still in the pocket of Gary's trousers and the other holding his phone. Gary takes a step closer and kisses him in between his eyebrows. It’s silly for Mark to be this worked up over apple juice and Gary can’t help but kiss him again and again because it’s this sort of thing that makes Mark who he is. Even the smallest things mean the most to him, like there’s nothing in his world that doesn’t deserve every ounce of his attention and genuine care. Especially when apple juice and his babies are involved.
“You’re very cute when you get stressed over apple juice, you know,” Gary mouths against his forehead. He wants to nibble on Mark's cheeks, make him giggle until the tension in his eyebrows subsides and he’s got his usual, blinding smile on his face.
“It’s important to the kids, Gar—”
“I know, I know, darling. C’mhere.”
Gary grabs his phone and drops it into the pocket of his flannel, shuffling about until Mark's got both arms around his waist right there in the middle of the cereal aisle on a Wednesday night. Gary presses in close and inhales Mark's subtle wild berries and faded cologne scent. His skin is just the slightest bit golden from the summer sunshine and the apples of his cheeks are littered with the faintest freckles. Gary knows that if he kissed his neck right now, Mark would taste like sweat and sunshine; if he ran his fingers through his hair, Mark's locks would still be warm from being in the sun all day, haunting his fingers with warmth when he eventually has to pull his hand away.
So Gary does both, but doesn’t have the heart to stop, to remove his lips from Mark's neck or slip his fingers out of Mark's hair. He’s happy where he is, all tangled up in his husband.
“I like you so much,” he whispers like a secret.
“I like you too, Gaz.”
Mark can feel Gary smile against his skin, trailing his nose along the column of his neck to find its place back home in the swoop of his collarbone.
“Mary's going to kill us if we make her stay any longer,” he mumbles into the top of Mark's head. It earns him a scoff, unsurprisingly.
“Mary's got three teenagers and an emotionally unstable Yorkie back home. I think we’re doing her a favour, babe.”
“Oh yeah?” Gary laughs. “Cuddling in the cereal aisle is your version of doing people favours now?”
Out of nowhere, Gary quickly detaches himself. He turns his back to Mark and begins to walk away, headed for the Froot Loops, probably.
“If you didn’t want to cuddle, you could have just said so.”
Mark knows what Gary's doing, but he indulges him nonetheless, quickly grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him against his chest again. He crashes softly into Mark's body. Mark stands on his tippy toes and tucks his chin over Gary's shoulder squeezing his arms around his torso. “Always want to cuddle with you, darling,” he whispers earnestly.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Mark reprimands him with a bite to his ear, making his husband squeal in his arms. “Don’t get smart with me, Marko, we’ve got things to do,” Gary says sternly, following it quickly by pursing his lips and closing his eyes. “Now give me a kiss.”
To his surprise Mark actually barks a loud laugh and forces himself out of Gary's grip, walking toward the Froot Loops for real this time.
“Wheeeey,” he pouts when he opens his eyes, apparently un-kissed.
By now Mark's already at least ten steps away on his tippy toes reaching for the Froot Loops. It’s all the way on the top shelf, though, and Mark, much to his own chagrin and Gary's amusement, still isn’t quite tall enough to reach. His fingertips just barely graze the rectangular box, a sliver of skin exposed where his shirt rides up. His hair is a mess and his trousers are tattered and grass stained. He looks like he’s 17 years old, on a quick midnight snack run to get him through Gary's Star Wars marathon, and Gary hesitates for a moment before giving him a hand. Mark never asks for help, is the thing, and it’s not so much that Gary enjoys watching Mark pout and struggle—maybe just a little bit—but sometimes he just wants to sit back and admire his husband, watch him from afar as he goes on with his day. Especially right now, when his chest aches with nostalgia and he can see the fine, golden hairs at the small of Mark's exposed back, the curve of his spine.
When he does eventually walk over and grab the box for him, he doesn’t say anything. Just hands it over and slides his hand underneath Mark's shirt, palm flat against his warm skin. Mark settles flat on his feet and his shirt falls down, right over Gary's hand. Maybe it’s all in his head, but Gary swears he feels Mark instinctively press himself closer and sway his hips just once, like he’s trying to feel Gary's larger hand graze the small of his back for a moment longer. Gary doesn’t mention it.
Gary's voice is softer when he speaks this time. “Do we need a box of Frosties or have you still got some at home?”
“I’ve still got some at home, yeah. We’re good.”
“What else is on your list?”
Mark digs his phone out of his pocket and reads, “Marmite for Jude, brown rice, oatmeal, spaghetti, and kale. Um… Eggs, milk, skim milk, two percent milk, vanilla extract, baking soda, and sea salt. And then a bunch of fruits and veggies, but I was going to go down to the farmers’ market with Pammy tomorrow morning and get them from there.”
“How do you still have the patience to make all of her food by hand?” Mark laughs. “She’s two years old, babe. I’m pretty sure smushed bananas taste the same no matter where you get them from.”
“But she likes helping me cook, though,” Mark pouts.
Gary can’t really argue with that, can he?
“Okay, okay. Let’s just go get your bloody kale and sea salt or whatever.”
“Wait—” Mark grabs Gary's hand and stops him midway. Gary still has his box of Froot Loops in his other hand, hasn’t tossed it in their cart yet. “Say smushed again.”
Gary looks at Mark like he’s grown a second head, but decides not to say anything about how odd his husband is being.
“Smushed?”
“Again.”
“Smushed, jeez, Marko. What the hell are you on about?”
Mark breaks out into a wide grin and shrugs his shoulders. “Nothing really, just like the way you say smushed. It’s cute.”
Gary stares back at him for a minute and doesn’t say anything. He’s not really sure how to respond, not that there’s much to say to something like that anyway. He feels his cheeks grow warm, a tingling sensation in his tummy. He feels 18 years old again. Gary stands two feet away from him, staring back entirely clueless about the affect he really has.
Mark clears his throat. “Um. So. Marmite, yeah? I think that’s in, uh, aisle—”
Gary stops Mark's wordless blundering and pulls him back into his arms yet again. This time he squeezes his arms around his husband’s shoulders, swaying their bodies left and right just slightly, naturally. There’s an awfully uncomfortable cardboard box in between them and they’ve definitely been in this stupid cereal aisle for far too long, but Mark shrinks in Gary's arms and nuzzles close to his neck.
It’s easy to be overly affectionate when they’ve fought to even be able to hold hands, Gary thinks. This is the easy part. This, holding Mark when he wants, for however long he wants, and not having to worry if anyone sees—this is the easy part. It’s what they worked so hard for. It’s been more than a few years, though, so maybe they should do as the kids beg and give it a break with the public displays of affection, but Gary can’t get himself to stop just yet. He’s got too many years to make up for, still.
The kids are too young to know how things started out or maybe too innocent to understand the stories behind them. The only version of Gary and Mark they’ve ever known is the married one, the one where they get to call Mark and Gary 'Dad' and 'Papa'. Mark hopes that’s the only version they’ll ever have to know, but he realises that realistically, they’ll grow up and they’ll get curious, find out things that would be easier to not have to discuss as a family. For right now, though, it’s comforting to pretend like this is the only version of them that’s ever existed, will ever have to exist.
This is the easy part.
Eventually Mark breaks the silence. He knows he has to or they’ll never let go.
“We should probably get those groceries, right?” he sighs into Gary's chest.
“We should, yeah. Howard probably thinks we fell asleep in the car again.”
Mark takes a step back and Gary's hands slip down to his waist. “To be fair, it wouldn’t be the worst thing we’ve put him through,” he points out. “Come on now, no more dirty talk until we at least get through the dairy products. I’m getting sleepy.”
It only takes another two minutes and a handful of kisses to get Mark to finally start moving again, which is probably a new record altogether.
They spend almost seven minutes discussing which type of pasta they actually want. Jude and Mark like fusilli, but Gary likes fettuccine and Skyler likes paccheri. Pammy just wants her bananas, so she’s out of the question altogether. They get to the point where Gary calls Howard and asks him to check the cupboard to see which kind they’re out of. They end up getting spaghetti, just as the list had read the entire time.
Getting the milks, the Marmite, the brown rice and the spaghetti is the easy part. They walk the aisles aimlessly for a few moments, but they get there in time, not necessarily in any sort of rush. They’ve been going to this same grocery store for years now and they know it like the back of their hands, but it’s still nice to get lost sometimes, especially when it’s empty like it is right now.
The neighbourhood is small enough that everyone knows everyone, and Gary distinctly recalls there being hushed whispers when they’d first moved in. It didn’t take long for the curiosity to die down, probably aided by the birth of Jude, who quickly became the neighbourhood menace the minute he could waddle about on his chubby little feet.
Maybe they’re that boring suburban family now, Gary wonders as they search for their favourite brand of brown rice—the one they can never remember the name of for some reason. Most likely they are, but they’re old and responsible now. Their wild days are far behind them. Instead of touring Europe and selling out entire arenas, they’ve settled for creating their own label and songwriting. And doing their grocery shopping at midnight, like all old and responsible adults.
It’s only when they get to the frozen section that something catches Gary's eye and they get stuck, out of nowhere.
“Oh boy, I want chocolate chip cookie dough.”
Mark looks up at his husband. “Jude doesn’t like chocolate.”
“And I don’t like peanutt butter,” Gary frowns.
“Well neither does Skyler, so that’s out of the question too.”
It really shouldn’t be this difficult. It’s almost pathetic that it’s this difficult. They’ve had eight years of practice. They should be better at this.
“We could just get all of them,” Gary suggests, the same way he does every single time they have this argument.
Mark turns to him, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows furrowed in deep thought. “You know we can’t. Ice cream wasn’t even on the list, Gary. We've got to go by the list.”
“List, mmchht, Mark. It’s bloody ice cream. Why don’t we just get vanilla, then? You can’t go wrong with vanilla.”
Gary faces the ice cream again. The two of them stand in the empty grocery store, arms crossed and stubbornly trying to figure out which flavour of ice cream to buy—ice cream that wasn’t even on their grocery list. Eighteen years they’ve been in each other’s lives, eight of which they’ve spent being parents, and something as trivial as picking out a flavour of ice cream seems to be the most trying task of their relationship.
“Which kind?” Gary motions with his chin to the ten different varieties of vanilla ice cream before them. “French vanilla, vanilla bean, slow-churned, creamy—“
“Let’s just get popsicles then!” Gary quickly gives up.
“Popsicles are entirely corn syrup and food dye.” Gary shakes his head and lets out an exhausted sigh. “You know, I’m starting to understand why we never have ice cream on the list.”
Mark shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe ice cream just isn’t the sort of thing you should be shopping for at midnight.”
“We used to do it all the time though.”
When Mark looks over at his husband, he thinks that Gary looks a lot like the boy who came into his life all those years ago. Maybe it’s the sleepiness getting to him and making his brain all fuzzy, but Mark looks at him and sees 18: a wild mess and spiky blond hair, blushing cheeks, begging for just one more good luck kiss, pretty please before they have to go on stage. Or maybe it’s the fluorescent lights above them and the bright colours of all the labels and signs, the cold air seeping from the freezer and into their bones that has Mark shivering with a bit of nostalgia.
They were a lot more spontaneous back then. Carefree and light on their feet, running out of the house to the closest McDonald's too late in the night and grabbing a bunch of junk food to munch on. It’s different now, but only because they’ve got three kids and a mortgage, are out of the city, and are less naive. It’s a relief to Mark that at least they’ve still got this: late night runs to grocery stores.
And one another, mostly.
Without another thought, Mark slides open the freezer door. He can feel Gary watching him as he quickly picks up a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and tosses it into their cart. “Ice cream is ice cream,” he shrugs, as if that’s a good enough explanation. “Barlow men will eat it up regardless.”
The way that Gary smiles at him, blushing and victorious because he’s gotten his pick of something as simple as ice cream, has Mark thinking that maybe a lot has changed, but definitely for the better. The way he sees it, everything has to change; get beat up and torn down a bit to get to where it needs to be, and him and Gary have gone through more than enough of that to last them a lifetime.
They’re not young and naive anymore, no longer tied down and drowning in uncharted waters. It feels cliché to say that they’re free now, but it’s true. Mark has Gary now, and he can kiss him and hold him and have as many children with him as he wants, and that’s exactly where he’s meant to be. Every rough tide and stormy sea has brought him where he is today, a ride both painful and worth every ache, just to get to his destination. Home.
Mark reaches out with his free hand, palm open, and Gary twines their fingers together. He pushes the cart down the store with one hand and with the other rubs his thumb across Gary's wedding ring. It’s a subconscious habit that Gary noticed years ago, the way Mark will grab for his hand and play with his wedding ring. Sometimes he can go on for hours, until their palms are sweaty and Gary starts to feel like they’re attached in more ways than one. He still isn’t really sure why Mark does it, but it feels nice and homey, so Gary's never once encouraged him to stop or brought it up. He likes to save Mark's little quirks for himself.
“Oh my God!” Mark says abruptly, stopping in the middle of the store. When Gary twists his head to give him a curious glance, Mark gasps, “I forgot the apple juice!”
Before Gary can say anything, Mark's letting go of his hand and running off to the other side of the store.
“What—” he mumbles to himself as he watches his husband—in his oversized jeans and flannel—run off. For a moment he debates just standing there, confused and sleepy, but eventually he gives up and heads off to the check-out aisle.
Many years ago, around the time that they got married, Gary remembers moving into this neighbourhood. Back then there were still hectic tours and hushed whispers and a drive into this area on their way to Marge's house one day. Mark had been—well, Mark: stricken with baby (and wedding) fever, so they’d gotten off the E31 for a snack break and to shake out their legs.
Everything was fine until Mark had caught a glimpse of a house and that was it. The front porch and the big yard, the swing set and the For Sale! sign. It took a while to visit an open house, get the legal work done, and then plan out the renovations, all while touring and recording. Gary thinks that looking back, maybe it was an impulse move, a desperate grasp for just one small thing that belonged to them and them alone, something no one else could touch or poke at or take away from. It was home. Something physical and permanent; a starting point for the rest of the lives.
Everything afterward is history. Three children, a mortgage, and a local grocery store open until late.
When Gary reaches the register—the only one up this late at night and half an hour before closing—Alex, a 20—something university student and Mary's nephew, is sat on his stool flipping through a gossip rag.
“Hey, Gaz,” he greets almost immediately. He’s got a wild head of black curls and a big dimpled grin, flimsy with his movements and all long limbed.
He’s also got a massive crush on Gary that he’s never really bothered being subtle about.
Gary stops the cart and steps in front of it, leaning over to rest his elbows on the conveyor belt. He breaks out into an equally wide grin and whispers in a soft voice, “Hey, mate. How are you?”
“I’m good, yeah, thank you,” Alex responds, just barely managing to keep himself from squealing. “How are you? Where’s Mark?”
Gary shrugs. “Sleepy, a bit. And Marko's off on a mission for apple juice, I think, so we’ll probably never see him again at this rate.”
“Oh.” Alex straightens up in his seat, looking serious now. “Apple juice should be in… Aisle 4—do you want me to—”
Gary quickly brings a hand to Alex's arm, settling him down with just one touch. He smiles at the dazed-out look on Alex's innocent face.
“Nah, don’t worry about it, mate. Mark's a big boy. He’ll find his way eventually.”
Just as Gary starts placing items on the conveyor belt and Alex asks how Jude's swimming lessons are going, Mark appears out of nowhere, breathless and carrying his beloved bottle of apple juice.
“Hey!” he pants heavily. “Didn’t miss anything, did I?”
He’s got a tight grip on the juice bottle and his cheeks are blushed a lovely pink. Gary glances at him, then to Alex, and then back to Mark once more. He’d noticed a slight resemblance a couple of months back, but it’s still weird to wrap his head around. It’s not like Gary's oblivious to attractive people, but he’s ten years older than Alex and—God, it’s such a cliché to say that nobody holds a candle next to Mark, but it’s true. The butterflies in his tummy have never been wrong about that much.
“Nothing, babe. Got your juice?”
Mark breaks out into a wide, proud smile. “Yeah! I got the organic one, too. It’s Skyler's favourite.”
Gary's heart goes into something like a subdued frenzy because of his husband. Instead of breaking down on the spot and leaping into his arms, he settles for a small, thankful kiss to the corner of his mouth. “He’s gonna love it, darling. Thank you.”
Mark knows they’re just talking about apple juice, but he also knows that there’s way more to the way Gary slides his hand underneath his shirt than just thanks for the juice, darling. He knows that the way Gary presses his fingertips against his skin, the way he rubs his thumb across the soft flesh at his hip, speaks volumes that have become a second language to him.
He settles the bottle of juice on the conveyor belt and Gary brings an arm around Mark's waist, while scanning his eyes across the now full conveyor belt of groceries. “We’re not forgetting anything, are we?”
“No, we’re okay,” Mark confirms, as Gary plucks his wallet out of Mark's pocket. “Besides, it’s getting late. We shouldn’t keep poor Alex here any longer, anyway. Is Mary in the back?”
“She is, yeah,” Alex answers. He scans the bottle of apple juice and then looks up at them. Gary catches him glance at Mark's fingers tucked inside the collar of his jumper and quickly look away, blushing. “I don’t mind, honestly, I haven’t got anywhere to be. And Aunt Mary takes a while to close up anyways, so.”
“So you’re stuck having to clean up after Mark and I here.”
Alex shrugs. “I’ll just leave that to the morning crew—you can slide your card now.”
As Gary pays for the groceries, Alex begins to bag them up. Mark would help, but he’s getting sleepy and Gary's so sturdy beside him, holding him up. By the time they get home, put all the groceries away, wash up, and get into bed, it’ll be almost half midnight, which means they’ll get a good four hours of sleep—if they’re lucky—before Pammy's up. He finds solace in the fact that it’ll be Gary's turn to get their daughter when she inevitably decides it’s time to wake up her daddies and begin the day.
Mark plans on getting a straight eight hours of sleep, though, so that by the time Gary finally crawls back into bed, he’ll just be waking up. It gives Mark a few moments to curl up against him all over again and watch him fall back asleep, force himself not to be lulled, too, by the soft rise and fall of his husband’s chest underneath his cheek. It’s not going to be nearly enough time, because the boys will eventually wake up and make some sort of ruckus, usually in an attempt to make pancakes. The fire alarm will go off, a dish will be broken, and Arthur will come barking into the room in horror—something will happen to force him out of bed, away from Gary's soft breaths and sleep-warm skin.
It’s probably a bit boring for the normal person, Mark thinks, but after all the interviews and the sold out arenas, Mark's in love with the idea of boring. He likes lazy days by the pool and writing music in his studio, likes Pammy's late night baths and Jude's annual firework shows with Uncle Howard. He likes helping Skyler with his piano lessons, and he likes grocery shopping with Gary late on Wednesday nights.
“Ready, darling?”
When Mark picks his head up, all the groceries are bagged up and back in the cart, Alex is closing down the register, and Gary's staring at him, equally as sleepy. He can see the faint, tiresome lines of the years etched into the skin by his eyes, soft when he smiles, green–eyed and gentle. Gary looks weary and warm, but domesticity and three children will do that to even the best, Mark figures, and it definitely doesn’t get better than Gary Barlow.
“Yeah,” Mark mumbles slowly, blinking just as lazily. “Let’s go home.”
They say goodbye to Alex, reminding him to say hello to Mary and his parents, before they head toward the exit. Gary keeps one arm locked in Mark's, and uses the other to push the cart along.
When they step outside the parking lot is empty, just as it had been when they’d first walked in. The summer wind is thick and cool, apologetically fanning at their damp skin for the humidity of the previous day. It smells like rain is coming and Mark inhales deeply in the dark of the night. It reminds him of how much cleaner the air is in their little town outside of London, away from the traffic and pollution and the hurry. He takes another breath and they’ve reached the car.
“C’mon,” Gary says, stopping the cart by the passenger side door. He lets go of Mark, causing him to stumble over a bit. Before Mark can pout and complain, Gary hops onto the hood of the car. It’s a bit of a jump considering they brought the small Mercedes, but Gary's got years of practice underneath his belt. He wiggles back until his bum is seated comfortably and his legs dangle over the edge. He put his arms out, frowning, and makes grabby hands at his husband. “Come to me.”
There’s a full moon out and in the soft glow of the streetlights Mark's eyes are shining, and the curves of his tiny legs impossible for Gary to draw his eyes away from. Mark's looks even smaller against the black metal of the car, standing out in his flannel and baggy trousers.
“Are you just gonna stand there and stare or you gonna come and kiss me, Barlow?” Gary challenges.
Barlow, Mark repeats in his head. He’s still not over how wonderful that sounds.
“Hold your horses, Barlow. I’m coming.”
Mark steps around to the front of the car and seamlessly fits himself into between Gary's dangling legs. Like this, Gary's got a even more centimetres of height advantage over him and his knees bracket Mark's waist with ease. Gary does what he does best and uses his legs to force Mark closer, circling them behind his back until they’re chest to chest.
“Hi,” Gary whispers, finally pleased with the lack of space in between them.
When Mark kisses Gary he can feel the smile spread across his husband’s lips, taste the iced tea he had at dinner, feel him grip the hair at the back of his head and smooth it out. When Mark kisses his husband, he feels him sigh into his mouth, something like relief and welcome home. Mark kisses him without any intention to stop, just keeps his arms secure around Gary's waist and cranes his neck back further and further, lets Gary have his way. The best part about growing up and marrying your best mate is that you can kiss for hours without it having to go anywhere, Mark thinks. He’s found comfort in endless snogging and late night grocery shopping, in this little town outside of London and in Gary Barlow.
“We should probably get going,” Mark sighs when they eventually stop to catch a breath.
Gary makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat and knocks theirs foreheads together, refusing to open his eyes. “Can I kiss you more when we get home?”
He’s close enough that when Gary does open up his eyes, Mark can feel his eyelashes just barely fan his skin. Gary sighs deeply and pulls away only to press a long kiss to Mark's forehead. “For however long you want,” he promises. “Now come on, my ice cream’s going to melt and Howard's probably worried sick.”
They’ll have a small chat with Howard and when he leaves they’ll put away the groceries and wash up. Gary will check on all the kids once more and Mark will drag him to bed, making sure he keeps to his promise. It’s going to be the same thing all over again: a crying baby and broken dishes, failed attempts at breakfast and a terrified dog, next Wednesday and another grocery list in between an entry of Radiohead's song lyrics and the schedule to Skyler's piano lesson, the same place it always is.