Work Text:
"It's just really h-hard-"
Mark stops dead in his tracks, freezing where he's standing on the carpeted steps that connect the first and second floors of the house. It's Ethan's voice, muffled by the wall between them. His tone is so soft, so careful, and he sounds a little hoarse and out of breath. A wet sniffle clues Mark into the fact that Ethan's… crying. They've just finished filming, Mark's been taking a quick shower to stop feeling sweaty and gross, and now Ethan is crying in his living room, and he fully, honestly, does not know how to deal with that right now. He’s not even wearing underwear, for fuck’s sake.
"I know, bud, I know. C'mere, I got you–...yeah, let's take your glasses off for now, let me just put them on the table real quick for you. There we go."
Another sniffle and a weak cough; the sound of cloth shifting – Amy's probably pulled Ethan into her arms for a hug, rubbing his back, comforting him. She's good at that. Always so gentle and patient. It's what she does for Mark after his nightmares, when he's so stressed out he can barely think, and it manifests in mysterious apparitions and the lifeless bodies of his closest friends playing across the empty theatre of his unconscious mind. It feels a little wrong, standing there, listening to their moment of privacy play out, but what's Mark supposed to do? Waltz in barefoot and vivacious in his bathrobe?
"Fuck", Ethan says, with gusto. "I'm sorry, I don't know why this is h-happening now, I don't cry that often, really. Mark's probably gonna be down here any second, and I don't wanna be a total fucking mess in front of both of you, I've let you down enough already, and like, I'm supposed to do this right, I'm supposed to be your equal, not a– a fucking crybaby–"
Ethan's voice breaks again, and Mark can barely hear him stifle a pathetic little hiccup. His heart tumbles onto the floor and shatters into a million little pieces.
"Hey, no, look at me", Amy coaxes him, "look at me, here, look. You're not letting any of us down. You're doing your best, and maybe you've got a lot of stressful stuff on your plate right now, but you aren't any less of an equal to us because of that. It's okay to cry. I cry all the time, yeah? And the entire internet's seen Mark ugly crying over sending conspiracy theorists into space. He’d understand. It's okay. You'll be okay. Just let it out. You're allowed."
Ethan does. After a weak laugh, he lets out a few heart-rendering sobs muffled into Amy's soft shirt. Her shoulder is probably all wet and gross already. On the stairs, quietly, Mark tries not to let the guilt of it all consume him by staring intently at his own toes. It doesn't work.
"Thanks", Ethan says after a while, gathering himself. He says something else, too, but it's too quiet for Mark to hear. And yeah, he should probably have left by now, but he just can't tear himself away. He's not yet picked up the shards of his heart he left on the floor earlier. His hair is still wet, dripping little cold drops down the back of his neck.
"Okay, that's okay, you can rest here for a bit. I'll get you a blanket."
"D-don't tell him." Fuck, he sounds scared.
There's a long pause before Amy says anything. "If you catch some sleep, I can tell him you were just tired?"
"Please. I can’t deal with that right now."
"Alright, bub."
If Mark is to guess what the next sound is, it's Amy planting a soft kiss on Ethan's forehead, and that's… new. They've always been close friends, but not quite that close.
Mark needs to think. He retraces his steps back up the stairs, slowly, slowly, holding his breath and shifting his weight, stepping only where he knows the stairs won't creak, well practiced from every morning he's had to avoid waking Amy on his way to walk the dogs. Upstairs, he sheds the robe and grabs the first clothes he finds; the first pair of briefs he can get his hands on, soft sweats, a t-shirt, and mismatched socks.
It strikes him then that it's been a long time since he's talked to Ethan. Really talked. Not just while they're setting up to film, or to plan the next videos, or to ask if he's bringing Spencer along. They're not generally the kind of friends who talk emotions at length. Like, sure, they care about each other, check in with each other, but at some point between the tour and now, they stopped talking, alone, as friends. It’s always about work, just a little bit, or there’s someone else around. They’ve both always got at least half a mask on. Most of the time, they're juggling many more.
Was that Mark's fault? He knows that about himself, that he can get so zeroed in on a project that his social life deteriorates outside of Amy and whoever he sees on the regular out of necessity, and even then, he slips into that space where everyone becomes a coworker and a colleague. A beloved coworker and colleague, yes, but… still.
When Mark finally drags himself back downstairs, his hair’s almost dry, and Amy has gotten to work in the kitchen. She's making stir-fry with all their favourite veggies, and has just finished dividing out two thirds into bowls when Mark walks in and presses a quick kiss to her cheek, looping his arms around her from behind.
"Hey there," she says, "I'm adding in an egg for you, princess protein."
Ethan is still wrapped up on the couch. He seems at the very least half asleep, face smushed into a pillow, hair wild, blanket balled up in his hands, eyes closed. "Ames? I didn't know Ethan was staying for dinner today."
She freezes for just a second before recovering her composure, cracking the egg into the skillet.
"I asked him to", she admits, shrugging, "he seemed tired, and I didn't wanna just shoo him out to drive like that. He'd do the same for you." Mark isn't sure about that, and he hates the way that thought feels in his head. "Get me another bowl?"
He does.
Glancing over at Ethan again, it crosses Mark's mind that he's never read the label on the sauce they use for stir-fries. Aren't there usually peanuts in those? Or they're made in a facility that processes them? Something like that. It’s worth making sure. "Amy? Did you check the sauce for–"
She holds up a bottle in reply. It looks normal, but the colours are a little different than the one they usually prefer; the label is purple rather than red. "I got this one, like, a month ago", she says, reading the label again to double-check, "it has, um–...yeah, it's got traces of cashews, but no peanuts."
"Oh, okay. That’s good." His chest feels absurdly tight. "Nevermind then. I’ll go wake him up."
…
Ethan stays over a lot more, after that. It’s always a different excuse, but it’s not like either it’s a hassle to have him there, and Chica loves playing with Spencer, so Mark and Amy both let him keep making them, even when it’s obvious he’s starting to run out.
He’s tired.
He’s forgotten to eat today.
Kathryn has a friend over and he doesn’t want to take unnecessary risks.
Spencer needs socialising.
He doesn’t want to spend time in an empty house when Kathryn’s out.
That video won’t edit itself, he’d rather do it here.
He’s just feeling a little lonely these days.
When Ethan sleeps over, he's in the guest bedroom, door cracked ajar for air circulation. When Mark gets up in the middle of the night to fetch himself a glass of water, he stops in the hallway. Listening. For a while he doesn't know what he's listening for; why he's doing it. Mark knows nothing's happened to Ethan in his sleep, but something about the soft breaths of deep, restful sleep punches the air out of his lungs, and he can't help but smile at Ethan's little snores and imagine his messy bedhead from wiggling to get comfortable. He looks so peaceful there. Vulnerable and at rest.
At home.
…
Amy's been down in her studio all day, working on some new design idea she's had for a while. She's even bought a whole set of new glazes for it, with pigments she doesn't usually work with. It's one of those things she does on her days off – experimenting with her craft, expanding into new ideas and styles and techniques.
Usually Mark knows not to disturb her when she's in the zone, but he's headed to the gym in a second, and he knows he's gonna need to call her some time between now and four to get some stuff out of the freezer, and that is unmistakably her phone face down next to the bathroom sink. So he's got no choice but to break his no-interrupting-Amy rule. It's a rule he made up himself, anyway.
On his way down to Amy's workshop her phone buzzes in his pocket, one-two-three times. It's the same size and shape as his, so he fishes it out on autopilot, motion lighting the screen. Amy's lock screen photo is a picture of her and Mark in Korea, smiling brightly, with a mid-day blue sky in the background, dotted with soft clouds. She loves that photo of them, says Mark looks like a sunkissed handsome hunk in it. He secretly likes it, too, but he pretends not to.
Before the image can remind him that it's not actually his own, the recent notifications catch his attention. Amy's got two missed calls, one from her dad, and one from Mark, who called trying to find out where she'd left her phone, and all her unread emails are menacingly pinned at the top. And at the very bottom are the messages that came in just seconds earlier.
from: eef!
<3
2:15 pm
All three messages are from Ethan, but only the most recent is visible. Mark knocks on the door to Amy's workshop, and before he can fully open it, his thumb moves without conscious thought to swipe the message alert away. It's not his place to feel any sort of way about it, but he does anyway.
(He mentally slaps himself for not immediately shoving that back wherever the hell it came from.)
"Amyyyyy", he croons, pushing the door open, “you left this in the bathroom."
Amy's foot stills on the pedal, wheel slowing to a stop as she surveys his outfit and the bag slung over his shoulder. "Aw, shit, thanks! I was wondering why it was so quiet in here. Is it time for those sweet gains?"
"You know it. Call you after, 'lright? Love you!"
She blows him a clay-covered kiss. "Love you too!"
That less-than-three haunts him all the way to the gym.
…
Mark spends most of his time under the stay at home order either working, working out, or thinking about stuff, which, being an introvert, generally serves him well. Most of the time, anyway. When his brain isn't taunting him by conjuring up images of every time he's been a lousy friend, and every time he's snapped at Ethan during Unus Annus, and every time Amy's had to pick up the pieces after him.
It's been on his mind recently, especially at night.
"Hey, Ames? Can I ask you something?"
They're in bed, awake later than Mark usually lets himself stay up. He's sprawled on his side facing his bedside table, with Amy snuggled up against him, an arm slung across his waist, his big spoon. They don't always share the bed like this – Mark snores like a freight train, Amy shifts and moves in her sleep, thwapping Mark in the face sometimes, and she stays up later than he does most days – but California's been in lockdown for months, and sometimes feeling another person's presence next to you is the only thing that makes you feel safe and tethered to reality.
"Mmm?" She shifts a little, tearing herself from the alluring depths of sleep. "What's up?"
"D'you think I'm a bad person?"
She makes a noise of concern against his back. "What? I–...no, no I don't think so."
He interrupts her. "A bad friend, then?"
"You can be a little distant sometimes, but no, not at all, everyone knows that's just what you're like.”
He lets her words soak in for a second, mulls them over. “Still makes me an asshole”, he concludes.
She pulls gently at his shoulder, coaxing him to roll over and face her. He looks past her into the darkness of the bedroom, not wanting to meet her gaze, but she places a hand on his cheek, guiding him back. "Mark, what's gotten into you? Where's this coming from?"
"I just... I wonder, sometimes, if– if I’m doing the right thing, or just fucking it up. If I should try harder or try less, or stop trying at all, I just don't know, and-"
It feels like he has more to say, more to explain, but whatever it is seems to resist being put into words. He rubs at his face in frustration, stubble chafing against his palms, and Amy seems to sense his agitation, because the next thing she does is motion for him to snuggle up closer. When he does, her fingers find his hair and start combing through it, nails scritching at his scalp the way he likes it, the way that makes him feel small.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. You are a bit of an asshole sometimes, but we all know you mean well in the end.”
Hearing it from her helps, always has, even if it’s not what he meant to talk about. Hers is the only validation he needs, the only thing he truly craves. The rest of the universe is secondary. His heart blooms with warmth, and the soothing rhythm of her small hands combing through his curls soon makes him forget what had him so worried in the first place.
…
“Amy’s on my side!”
Ethan reigns triumphant, for once.
“She’s not! She’s just–”
It's the last video they film that day. They're all exhausted, the idea is sub-par, there's clearly something wrong with the props they’re using, and for the first time in his life, Mark’s tired, frustrated brain is telling him he wants Ethan to leave the fucking house and never come back, channel be damned. It probably shows, but quite frankly, Mark doesn't fucking care.
“I’m on Ethan’s side", Amy says.
Like it's obvious.
They wrap up the video without any major incident, somehow. On his way out, Ethan pulls Amy into a hug – it'll be a while until next filming day, and the pure relief of knowing they're all blessedly plague-free has made Ethan even touchier than usual the past few weeks. Clingy, almost, with the way he gravitates towards Amy and keeps trying to initiate touch with Mark, too. Sometimes he gets it. Sometimes he doesn't.
When he's lost in thought, Mark stares into whatever space is in front of him. Right now, that space is Ethan, and he notices.
"Oh, should we also–I mean, if you want to?"
The accompanying gesture makes it clear he's offering a hug. Mark can't remember the last time he hugged someone other than Amy. He has no idea when Ethan last hugged someone other than Amy, either.
(It’s like they’re both starved moths, circling the same light, mistaking it for the moon.)
"Sure. Why not."
It's not a great hug. Ethan clings to him, squeezing a little too hard, and Mark is stiff as a board. He thinks Ethan's mumbling something against his chest, and it might be I'm sorry, but that might also just be what Mark's pissed off imagination wants him to say.
When Ethan finally leaves, tail between his legs, Mark has to take a moment to screw his eyes shut and count to ten, hands balled up tight into fists, and when he opens them again, Amy looks more concerned than he's seen her in a long time.
She sighs, shaking her head. "Sometimes I don't understand you. I think I do, I think I've got you figured out, and then…"
"Amy–"
"Not tonight, Mark."
Before he can say that she's being unreasonable, she's grabbing his car keys from their spot, tossing them at him. "I'm not mad, I promise, just… go for a drive, or something. Get your shit together. We'll talk when you get back."
He does.
Los Angeles by night is a sprawling lamp-lit and endless landscape, holding her breath for him as he drives, and drives, and drives, and drives. He doesn’t put any music on, and there is an unnerving quiet in the streets, but Amy was right. This was what he needed.
By the time he gets back it's an ungodly hour – he lost track of time, his mind racing, eyes on the road – and he’s almost run the battery of his Tesla all the way empty. He’s been gone for long enough that Amy's gone to bed, so he tears off his shirt and pants and collapses into the guest room, feeling a great empty chasm tearing through his insides now that the anger has fizzled out. Did Amy wait for him like she promised? Did she sit, mulling it over, waiting patiently until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer?
Even though he’s not stayed the night in a while, the bed still kinda smells like Ethan, somehow.
Ethan, Ethan, Ethan.