Chapter Text
Mark was already awake and dressed by the time Ethan shuffled downstairs, which was unsurprising.
What was surprising was that he was still around - stood alone in the light of the kitchen's side door, surveying their garden as he fiddled with his cufflinks. Unhurried and otherwise unengaged. No henchmen in sight and no poor sap tied to the kitchen table like the last memorable occasion that Ethan had woken up before nine.
Not by choice, of course. The screaming had made a pretty hard-to-ignore alarm.
"I will not be attending dinner tonight," Mark rumbled, speaking without so much as glancing in his direction. His voice was gritty from sleep, a rumble that would be pleasant if it didn't remind Ethan that they slept in separate beds. Separate rooms, even. Such as it was he almost never heard the deep baritone save for days like this, when the insomnia sparked a war with his ADHD and his sleep had been restless and light enough that the morning sunshine forced him out of bed.
"What is it this time?" he asked with faux interest, heading for the coffee maker. "Shooting someone in the kneecaps? Threatening our gardener again?" he took a sip of his coffee and cringed at the bitter beans that Mark favored, leaning back against the counter to peer at Mark over the rim of his mug.
He looked unfortunately angelic in the soft gold of the sun. His hair had grown a little longer over the past months and it curled around his temples, threatening to brush against his cheekbones. Left free of pomade or spray it curled in soft ripples and waves. His long lashes cast shadows over his skin like some kind of painting in a museum.
Beautiful.
Untouchable.
"Or perhaps hiding from your Aunt like a coward because you broke her favourite mug?"
Mark's eyes flit to him in annoyance, gunsmoke and whiskey as the corners of his mouth tugged down slightly. He finished fastening the second link and dropped his arms, frowning.
"I'm meeting with Amy," he replied, and Ethan hid the sudden prod of pain in his chest by sipping his coffee. "And you know I'm going to have my ear chewed off about that fucking mug."
"Unbelievable," Ethan muttered with a scowl. It wasn't that he necessarily wanted to have dinner with Mark, but it was certainly wounding to be told he was going to be abandoned yet again for the blonde beauty he knew was the true holder of his husband's affections.
"You shouldn't have dropped it if you weren't prepared to deal with the consequences," he added after a pause, turning away to find the milk and sugar. Stubbornness was one of his hardier qualities, but even he wouldn't sacrifice the integrity of a morning coffee for the sake of putting on a farce for a man who might as well be a stranger.
It was then that he noticed the fresh knife mark in the brand new oak cabinets and he ran his thumb over it with a scoff. "This is the last time I marry a Mafia Don," he grumbled in annoyance. Those cabinets were barely two weeks old.
"I should hope so," Mark drawled from behind him, arms folded when Ethan turned around to shoot him a flat, lethal stare. "And it's not like I broke it on purpose. Do you think I enjoy being yelled at in Korean for thirty minutes?"
Ethan's smile was brittle. This was the most they'd conversed in near a week and they were leading with a fight right off the bat. Although Mark did have a point; he'd only broken the mug because a loose goat had charged at his legs. And wasn't that a sentence you could only say in the hazy countryside?
Still.
"I don't know what gets you off, dearest. You spent our wedding night with another woman," he answered far too sweetly, taking a banana from the fruit bowl. "I'm not saving you any leftovers," he added, taking a seat at the table. A muscle in Mark's jaw jumped but it seemed to be more in exasperation than anger.
"Are you attempting to starve me out of this marriage?" Mark asked, voice light as he stood opposite the other chair, hands resting over the ornate back of it. Even from a lower angle he was startlingly regal, a single brow slightly higher than the other, head tipped just so to one side. Ethan was filled with that familiar irresolution between kissing him and kicking him right between those muscular, carved thighs.
"No," he answered honestly. "I'm punishing you for making me attend a family dinner with a family that is not in fact mine, with your Aunt - who's eighty-year old, custom, favourite mug you quite recently obliterated." He unpeeled his banana, taking a generous and quite aggressive bite of it.
He'd long stopped attempting to seduce Mark, right around the time he'd been deposited into a hotel room alone on the night of their wedding while his new husband retreated to the hotel bar to 'discuss business' with the striking blonde that his betrothed's friends had all informed him was the true flesh of his interest.
He was mid-chew when gentle, calloused fingers closed around his jaw, tipping his head back slightly. Mark's eyes were dark like honey in the shade.
"My family is your family," Mark informed him, soft but firm. "They love you as much as their son as I am. Do not disregard them so easily."
And wasn't that just so Mark? To make what ought to be a complimentary statement sound like a reprimand. A gentle scolding as if he were a puppy chewing on the table leg.
He narrowed his eyes and pulled his chin from Mark's grip, sipping his coffee so as to bite his tongue and not say something that would undoubtedly bring a crease between Mark's brows. As it was Mark let his hand drop, watching him for a long moment in pensive silence before he straightened again.
"I am sorry about missing dinner. I will make it up to you in the week," Mark offered, giving him a deceptively soft mockery of a smile. Mark was not an unkind man - but Ethan had found that since their wedding he had become impersonal. They were strangers coinhabiting the same space and nothing more. During the dinners they did share together it felt like roommates too used to orbiting each other suddenly dragged into the same space, awkward and stilted, making polite small talk that would inevitably end in one of them making excuses to leave.
"Save your money or whatever gift you were intending to ply me with," Ethan dismissed, waving a hand. "And if you wind up bringing business home with you tonight, do try not to ruin the new rug. It's dry clean only."
The flicker of annoyance that had flashed across Mark's face was gone, replacement with puzzlement as he glanced through the kitchen doorway, gaze lingering on the hall that led to the reception room. "I didn't know we'd procured a new one."
"The last one was ugly," Ethan shrugged, rising to throw his banana peel into the compost. Mark turned to him with a look of amusement, so light it could almost be fond, if Ethan were to squint.
"It was designer."
"The definition of designer does not include the inherent promise of being aesthetically pleasing," Ethan shot back, rinsing out his empty mug. Mark wasn't fond of clutter and enough pointed looks meant that these days Ethan saved himself the trouble of another and merely cleaned up after himself as he went.
"That's a fair point," Mark conceded with a single nod that had a twisted lock of dark hair flopping over his brow. It lent him an infuriatingly cute quality, paired unfairly with what seemed to be a genuine smile - however small.
The moment was shattered when Mark's phone gave a soft chime and he pulled it from his pocket, checking it with a downward twist of his mouth. "Wade is here," he noted, tucking his phone away and turning to where Ethan stood drying his hands on a towel. "I should be home in the late evening. Seán will escort you to dinner. Please excuse me," he leaned in, hand ghosting over Ethan's bicep as he pressed the whisper of a kiss to his temple. Ethan took in a single breath of his minty, light aftershave and then Mark was gone, slipping out of the front door and letting it snick shut behind him.
Ethan touched the space where Mark's soft lips had brushed over his skin, biting at his lip before he stalked out of the room.
He spent most of the morning in his own bedroom, curled up in the sunshine with his laptop, debating on what colour Nintendo Switch he wanted to buy.
Mark had given him a credit card three days after the wedding, citing that it was Ethan's to use whenever he needed to buy something. Mark's career meant they weren't struggling for money, but Ethan was often loathe to use the card, caught between annoying Mark with extravagant purchases and shying away from spending blood money.
The Switch, he reasoned, was a necessary purchase. It would help him pass the days and the $400 price tag for the console, games and accessories would surely bring a pinch to Mark's brows.
He settled on the blue eventually, since it was his favourite colour, typing in the card's details before he leaned back with a smug smirk. The satisfaction was short-lived when he realised he still had several hours to go until he was expected at dinner and he huffed, flopping onto his bed and turning on the TV.
He decided midway through his fourth episode of Sherlock that he wasn't going to attend the dinner. Fuck Mark; if he couldn't be bothered to show up why should Ethan? Mark's family were pretty nice and all, but Ethan wasn't some housewife that was going to sit there and play nice with his husband's family while said husband was with another woman.
He'd started watching The Great when Seán text him, the sun beginning it's slow descent downwards into the late afternoon. He eyed the generic 'I'm outside' message before he shot off a quick 'not going, got a headache.' Locking his phone he tossed it aside so he wouldn't hear it buzzing, turning the volume up on the TV.
"Now that's a crock of shite," Seán spoke from the doorway several moments later. When Ethan managed to peel his thundering heart off the ceiling he rounded on the Irishman with a scowl.
"I didn't say you could come into my room," he huffed, to which Seán simply looked pointedly down at where his boots were still resting on the laminate flooring of the hallway.
"Fuck off," Ethan grumbled.
"Did the Bossman say you could skip out?" Seán asked instead of replying, mouth quirking in a friendly smirk.
"He didn't say I couldn't," Ethan shot back before he frowned. "Either way, I'm not going. If he wanted a plaything to order around he should've gotten a puppy, not a husband."
"You're a salty son of a bitch, you know that?" Seán asked him lightly, stepping into the room and sinking down at his side, mindful to keep his shoes off Ethan's bed.
Ethan declined to reply, pointedly turning up the volume on the TV a little more. Seán sighed at him but didn't attempt to bully him into leaving, pulling out his phone and firing off several messages. Undoubtedly to Mark, who was almost certainly unhappy about it. The thought fed him with a smug sense of satisfaction.
He'd take his petty wins where he could.
It was dark when Seán slipped quietly out of the house, although Ethan had no doubts that the man (or any other of Mark's employees) were still lurking around, eyes on the house as if Ethan were the Mona Lisa and this was the Louvre, a prized possession to be guarded from the harries of the outside world.
It was darker still when Mark slipped into the house, so discreetly that Ethan might've missed it if he'd been breathing too loudly. Ethan wondered if it was consideration for the fact that Ethan would be sleeping at this hour or if Mark was sneaking back inside like a teenager who'd stayed out past curfew.
He breathed a sigh and shut his eyes tighter, listening to the sound of a faucet, the clink of a bottle, and then the sound of polished dress shoes on the wooden staircase. He had to wrestle a jump of surprise under control when it was his own bedroom door that swung tentatively open, his breath hitching in his chest for a moment. There was no hallway light on but Ethan could picture the silhouette that Mark made in the doorway.
Mark came closer, footfalls the closest thing to silent on the thick carpet. Ethan forced himself to breathe evenly, steady-deep inhales and exhales, forced himself to keep his muscles relaxed, to parody sleep as best he could. After a moment the mattress sank under Mark's weight, careful and slow. On his next inhale he caught leather, wine and aftershave. The barest undertone of sweat.
His gut twisted.
Mark's palm settled on his shoulder, so gentle that for a moment Ethan wondered if it was just his imagination desperately filling in the blanks of Ethan's desires. A calloused thumb brushed slowly over the soft fabric of his shirt and then it moved, curling around the comforter to bring it higher over his form, tucking him in as if swaddling a newborn.
"Sweet dreams," Mark whispered into the dark between them, lingering a moment longer before he rose with the same caution of his other movements and slipped from the room with the soft snick of the door shutting.
Ethan's heart pounded and sleep eluded him for another hour more.
Mark didn't mention it in the morning and Ethan was too caught off guard by the act to feel confident in approaching it. By the time he'd finally dragged himself out of the covers Mark had been working out in the gym room, and Ethan sat cross-legged on a piece of equipment, cradling a bowl of cereal as he watched. It draw a raised brow and a momentary pause - the same reaction Mark always had when Ethan deigned to observe him, but no comment.
Ethan came to the same conclusion that he always did when he watched Mark do anything that involved a lack of clothing; that it was incredibly unfortunate that he'd married himself off to an incredibly attractive man that had absolutely no attraction for him in reciprocation.
Sweat gave Mark's tanned skin a sheen that Ethan wanted to lick off and the strain of the workout meant his muscles were flexing and trembling, the overhead lighting lending him the harsh curves and grooves of a Roman statue.
Exertion-prompted moans and grunts were squirrelled away into the backlogs of Ethan's memory, to be stored there for the next time that he gave into his patheticness and fantasised about the what ifs as he wrapped a hand around himself, daydreaming about scenarios where he was wanted back, where the wedding had been one of love rather than an agreeable tolerance and the need for a presentable, strong fortress of family.
"Enjoying the view?" Mark's guttural rumble cut through his thoughts, and Ethan realised he'd been sat there staring, a soggy spoonful of cereal halfway to his mouth.
Ethan scowled and dropped the spoon, pushing to his feet and stalking out of the room with an indignant huff, ignorant to the soft and amused expression on Mark's face as he watched the retreat.
Midday was when he learned that nobody cancelled dinner plans on Sunok Fischbach and got away with it. He was in the kitchen mixing up a strawberry milkshake when she exploded through the back door, and once his brief heart-attack faded he watched in dismay as the milkshake powder drifted slowly down around him like snowfall.
"Ethan Nestor!" she barked, her smile so wide he could almost see her back teeth as she dumped a floral carry-tote on the kitchen table and dragged him in for a crushing hug. It was incredibly humbling to have his ribs constricted by a woman half his size and twice his age, the grinding of his bones bringing tears to his eyes as he wheezed out an approximation of her name.
She gripped him by the arms next and thrust him backwards, holding him the way one might inspect a towel at a store. "So skinny!" she gushed, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "You skip dinner, no wonder you are so skinny, eh? Can't be trusted to feed yourself. Where is my idiot son? Why isn't he feeding you?"
She followed this up with a loud and disciplinary sounding chunk of Korean, none of which he could translate despite taking online classes so he could have the pleasure of insulting Mark in his native tongue.
Mark appeared in the doorway a moment later, looking both disgruntled and chastened, appropriate for both the mafia don and the beloved son. "Mama," he tried, pinching at his brow as she cut him off with another tirade. He looked impossibly fond for someone (presumably) getting chewed out, and for a moment his gaze darted to where Ethan still dangled in his mother's grip, like a fish in a man's Facebook photo.
"Mama," he repeated patiently. "Idaneul nwajwo."
Sunok hmmed at her son before she turned to Ethan, raising a hand to his cheek to inspect his face before she let him go.
"I will feed you. Sit sit. You, go work." The last comment she directed at her son, who lingered in the doorway like a scolded dog, unsure of being allowed back into the house. Mark blinked, then looked affronted.
"Hey. I make my own hours. What if I'm hungry too?"
"Oh, you hungry? Then you cook. You haven't shown your face to dinner in three weeks. Three weeks. When you come to dinner, then you get fed!" With that, Sunok chased Mark out of the kitchen with a motherly scolding, leaving Ethan to sit at the table as she used the oven and stove to heat up the tupperware boxes of food that she'd brought.
She had in fact brought enough to feed a small army - which meant Mark was welcome to eat what he wanted, but would be left to re-heat it himself.
When all was heated and plated she herded him out into the back yard, where they sat on the white table beneath the orange trees and the baby willow, all of Ethan's polite inquiries to her health and week batted aside until he'd eaten an acceptable amount for small talk to ensue. Despite his earlier comments, he really did love Sunok.
She was a cheerful woman who always had something quirky and wise to say. Secretly, it made him ache for the mother he'd left behind, though Sunok filled that void in some part with her own light and love.
"So. You didn't come to dinner. Why?" she demanded after a while, pointing at him accusingly with a fork. Ethan still couldn't use chopsticks despite her and Mark both doing their best to teach him, and she refused to let him be the only one eating with a fork when he joined them. It was something seemingly so insignificant but so considerate that each time it happened it made him pause, warmed through.
"I..." he trailed off for a moment, embarrassed. "I was mad. Mark wasn't going, and it made me mad, and I didn't want to ruin dinner by being angry."
It wasn't a complete lie. But neither was it the primary reason. He'd cancelled dinner out of spite, a tit-for-tat that seemed even more foolish now his anger was gone and he was confronted with it. But Sunok just snorted and gave a tinkle of laugher, waving her fork.
"Ah, young love. Next time you angry, just have sex. It works very well, take my word," she chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. For a moment he only hummed, half paying attention, and then her words caught up with him and he spluttered, turning his head to the side so his mouthful of glazed duck meat would spray over the grass and not the rest of the food.
"No!" he barked, horrified, then reeled himself in with a cough. "I mean, we're not... Mark and I don't do that. We don't have sex."
Sunok narrowed her eyes, both in suspicion and consideration. "Why not?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it. The answer to that was a tangled mess that would take far too long to unravel. After a moment, Sunok seemed to understand that he had no specific, short answer, and she shrugged, taking a sip of her wine.
"Well, if not Mark, why not get man on the side? Someone handsome. Sex is good for health and soul," she informed him wisely, kindly ignoring the way his cheeks made an immediate shade change straight to crimson.
"Someone else?" he echoed faintly.
"As long as Mark is okay with it, yes. Get another handsome man. A strong man with—ahhhh—big penis, and more free time than Mark," she continued, waving her wine glass enthusiastically. Ethan blanched, scrambling desperately for what he could say.
What did you say when your husband's mother was encouraging you to find a fuck buddy with a huge dong?
He was saved from having to answer by Mark, slipping out of the back door as if he expected to be sent straight back in, looking unfairly delicious in a patterned button-up that gripped at his biceps and trim waist, his hair unruly after his shower and left free to curl and twist. He approached them with a smile, tentative and sweet as he held up a fresh bottle of wine and a third glass.
"If I'm not allowed to eat, can I at least drink?" he teased warmly, eyes sparkling and voice so rich it went straight down Ethan's spine. Mark hooked his leg around a spare chair to situate it and sank down, thighs spreading as he settled. He topped up Sunok's glass first then turned to Ethan, inclining the bottle in a silent question. Ethan managed a single nod, watching as Mark topped it up before filling his own glass.
"It's a lovely day. If the weather holds out tomorrow, we should go somewhere nice," Mark murmured, tilting his head up to the sun. Illuminated in soft gold, he looked Romanesque in his beauty. Resplendent and just as detached as the marble statues behind their red ropes and their glass cages. His lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones that Ethan wanted desperately to touch.
He sipped his wine.
Between stop-start conversations they made their way through another bottle, the rich red tangy and smooth on his tongue. Sunok thankfully didn't risk his cardiac health by bringing up her little suggestion and he felt pleasantly relaxed by the time Sunok decided it was time to leave.
Mark obligingly walked her out, sharp edges filed smooth by his mother's adoration, smile radiant enough to rival the yellow rays that warmed Ethan's cheeks as they disappeared back into the house. He sat there for a moment longer before he got up, divesting the empty plates into the sink.
He was collecting their glasses when a light touch brushed against his elbow, tentative as if expecting rebuttal. "I thought we could sit outside for a little longer," Mark offered, voice soft on the light breeze. Ethan was caught so off-guard that instead of answering he simply sank back into his seat as if his strings had been cut. Mark smiled at the act, pouring another glass from a bottle that had seemingly materialized from nothing.
They were both, it seemed, content to sit in the glow of the sunshine without saying a word. Mark kept his eyes either half-lidded or shut, listing towards the lulling heat as if drawn to it, like a flower. It felt almost damning, sitting there and observing his casual beauty.
"When will they be ripe?" he blurted out when his mouth began to open almost of it's own accord. Mark cracked an eye to lazily glance at him before following the line of Ethan's arm as he pointed to the infantile oranges growing on the branches above them.
"Another month, maybe," Mark drawled, watching them sway. "The trees are young. They'll keep giving fruit for several years."
"What will you do with them?" he asked curiously. He could imagine Mark in a bespoke suit, lounging in the grass, cutting open an orange with the sleek, skinny little knife tucked against his calf. Juice running down his fingers, over his chin, the pink of his tongue as he'd lick it away-
"I juice most of them. Mama likes to take as many as I'll let her have. Korean cooking makes good use of oranges, and sometimes she'll make a tart out of them," Mark answered, lips curving upwards in a fond, reminiscing smile.
Ethan tried to imagine Mark stood in the kitchen, shirtsleeves rolled up and wearing an apron, using one of those old-fashioned glass fruit presses to juice baskets and baskets of oranges.
He came to the swift conclusion that Mark probably had someone else do the hard work for him.
"Did you grow anything, back in Maine?" Mark asked suddenly, and Ethan blinked at him before chewing thoughtfully on the side of one nail.
"Not really. Maine was usually too cold for anything fruity or flowery to survive. But Mom had a herb garden, and we had a few indoor plants," he answered after a moment. The 'garden' had actually just been a few planters of chives, mint, basil and parsley, but Ethan supposed it counted. They'd tried to grow strawberries too, but the damn things had never grown larger than the size of a grape.
The tomato plants, too, were a failure they didn't speak of.
Mark looked thoughtful, gaze drifting off to one side of the garden. "I've been meaning to re-plant a herb garden after the last one died. Perhaps soon we can go to a gardening store, get some seeds and sprigs."
What an ordinary thing to do. Just two husbands, completely normal in the eyes of the world, visiting a garden centre to fill a cute little herb garden in the picturesque scenery of their detached, beautiful home.
Like something cut straight out of a Hallmark movie or magazine.
It made Ethan a little angry and a lot sick. He let his gaze drop, down to the bare skin of his ring finger, where he refused to wear the overly ornate band and stone Mark had presented him with unless they were being seen in public or unless Mark had business partners over for an afternoon whiskey and cheese board.
"Maybe," he answered dully, and drained the last of his wine.
He excused himself, flashing Mark a tight smile and making up an excuse about not wanting to miss a podcast (a pretty little housewife didn't have anything to be tired over or a job they had to be prepared for, after all.)
He didn't see Mark for the rest of the evening.
In fact, Mark wasn't there either when he woke up. The house was empty (though Ethan knew from past experience there'd be someone in a car outside keeping an eye on it) and there was a slip of paper on the kitchen table in Mark's elegant cursive informing him business had called and that Mark would be back when it was taken care of.
Business.
Such an inconspicuous word. So innocent.
Ethan supposed it could be; running a mob involved a surprising amount of actual business management, financial meetings, social calls and conferences. As if the mob was nothing more than your average company. Business could mean liaising with the accountant or pulling someone's teeth out with pliers.
Crumpling the note, Ethan threw it in the bin.
He passed the day with some Netflix then went for a jog, making a haphazard plate of sandwiches for lunch and eating in the blissful warmth of the garden. It was well into the night when he heard the door open and he shifted on his bed, listening curiously. It was perhaps only because he was paying such keen attention that he heard the soft, feminine laugh.
Feeling vaguely sick, he threw back the covers and carefully slipped out of bed, easing his way through the door and down the steps. The good news about living in such an obnoxiously expensive house was that the floorboards were thick and solid and didn't bend or shriek under his weight. The further through the house and down the stairs he got, the more he could hear that Mark hadn't returned alone.
With unease, Ethan realised he knew exactly who to expect.
Padding through the hallway, he risked a quick, secretive peek into the main lounge room. Mark's back was turned, attention fixed on the alcohol cabinet. He's shed his suit jacket and was wearing a rich, red dress shirt, sleeves rolled up. He was pouring something, head bowed as ice clinked quietly out of view.
In one of the plush, ornate leather armchairs, was a head of curled blonde hair and a slender arm folded over one armrest. "And the husband won't mind?" Amy asked lightly, head tilting.
"Ethan doesn't like whiskey," Mark rumbled an answer, turning around with two glasses, handing her one as he sank into the armchair next to her.
Heart falling, Ethan turned away and slunk back upstairs, closing his door quietly and waiting until he was buried under the covers before he let the tears that had been burning his eyes fall.
The husband.
He wasn't even Ethan. Just the husband. The marriage of convenience that got Mark out of arranged marriage proposals from other mobs, the nice little tax break that meant Mark could funnel even more money around. To make it worse, he was the husband, but his husband was downstairs sharing whiskey with another woman, one he'd no doubt invite upstairs once the drink had settled warm and burning in their bellies.
Muffling his angry and hurt sniffles into his pillow, Ethan scowled. The longer he lay there bitterly mulling it over, the more the hurt translated into anger. He was the one with a ring in his sock drawer. He was the one with Fischbach hyphenated into his last name.
And he was the one who'd gone untouched. Unloved. Unwanted, save for the benefits his presence offered.
Why hadn't Mark just married her? Why hadn't he spared Ethan the hope of romance and never given him that damned ring. Why couldn't it have been her, right from the beginning, sparing him this half-life and this unique breed of pain.
He let out a shaky sigh and wiped at his eyes, emerging from the covers when the stifling cocoon he'd made became too hot to bear. His sleep was fitful and unrestful for the night, leaving him in foul mood when he woke up. Under-eyes smudged purple and sclera red and hair spiky from tossing and turning he both looked and felt like some kind of sleepless gremlin.
Mark was in the kitchen when he stomped down the stairs, looking irritably put-together and cheerful. He was cooking something that smelt like soy sauce and meat and when Ethan reached for the coffee machine Mark rounded on him with a smile.
"Good morning. I was about to come check if you were still breathing. I made ramen for lunch. Would you like sakè with it?"
"I'm not hungry," he grumped, pouring himself a generous helping of coffee and skirting around Mark for the fridge.
"It's mid-day. You haven't eaten anything since last night," Mark pointed out lightly, the kitchen filled with clinking as he began to serve two portions into bowls. "I know we didn't get to go anywhere yesterday - I was unexpectedly needed, but I was thinking if you're up for it this afternoon we could go out to dinner?"
"Who's to say you won't be unexpectedly needed then?" Ethan asked snidely, dumping in two heaped spoons and sugar and turning around. Mark was watching him carefully, a many-threaded combination of concern, caution and puppy-like hurt. Perhaps a touch of reproachfulness, too.
"I know my job isn't exactly a nine-to-five," Mark began placatingly, setting the two bowls on the dining table. "But I'm also acutely aware of the fact that lately I've been... Neglectful. In my duties as your husband."
Ethan took a deceptively calm sip of his coffee and levelled his gaze at Mark. "You can take your duties and shove them so far up your asshole you can spit them out."
Turning promptly on his heel, he stormed back upstairs, where he stubbornly stayed until hunger drove him to creep back downstairs hours later, tip-toeing past Mark's office to the kitchen. He was shoulder deep in the fridge when a voice piped up behind him.
"There's a plate of cold cuts, cheese and fruit in there. I figured you'd come out hungry."
Ethan spun and guiltily met Mark's gaze. The man was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, one ankle hooked over the other and arms folded, biceps straining against the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. He looked... Neutral, observing Ethan impassively.
"Thanks," he muttered, dragging his gaze away to reach for the plate. "You know, if you're going to cancel plans to break someone's kneecaps, you could at least make it the priest's," he grumbled as he moved towards the table. Mark's brow arched as he watched and then he pushed off the doorframe, sliding smoothly into the seat opposite.
"Why's that?"
"He's a raging homophobe," Ethan muttered, twisting a grape off the stem. "I like the other one better. He told me I'm God's sweetest son."
"So he flirted with you," Mark responded in amusement.
"Shut up," Ethan sighed, making a sandwich out of two slices of cheese and a cold cut. "I'll have you know I'm adorable."
"I'm sure everyone thinks the man married to their country's mafioso is adorable," Mark assured him, head tipping. He wasn't smirking, but it was in his eyes.
"Not everything is about you," he grumped, refusing to be lulled by the easy way in which the conversation flowed between them.
"No? Since when?" Mark pouted, head tipping further, looking for all the imagery like an innocent puppy.
Ethan ignored him, picking his way through the platter and doing his best to thing of anything that wasn't the minty, clean scent of Mark's aftershave or the way his hair flopped over his temple in a twisted curl. The silence stretched out, not uncomfortable but almost pensive as if it were holding it's breath and waiting to see who filled it next.
"What are your plans for the week?"
"I was thinking of re-enrolling in college," Ethan blurted out, then dropped his grape in surprise. He had, but he certainly hadn't meant to blurt it out. It'd been a distant thought in the back of his mind, the first tentative tendrils of an idea. Like the first inkling of a craving before his ADHD latched onto it and it became inexorable.
Mark was silent for a short while and Ethan didn't dare to look at him. And then;
"What would you study?" Mark asked quietly, sounding thoughtful.
"Digital editing, maybe. Or graphic design," Ethan mumbled, poking at a cold cut. He wasn't sure why Mark was bothering to ask - he'd only shut the idea down.
"I'll have Seán gather some pamphlets and arrange some tours of nearby colleges," Mark settled on and Ethan's head shot up in surprise.
"Wait, what?"
"I know you sold your car when you left Maine, so we can go to a dealership on the weekend, see if there's anything—"
"You're letting me go?" Ethan cut on, leaning forwards in his seat.
"It's what you want to do," Mark answered softly, looking almost pained as he said it, as if regretful over something.
"You're just letting me go? No security, no bribery?"
"Hang on. I never said no security," Mark answered, sitting up straighter.
"I don't want security detail," Ethan said firmly.
"Ethan," Mark started warningly. "There are rules in place to protect you. Running around alone on a campus without anyone watching is too dangerous." He paused, sucking in a breath. "Fucking stupid is what it is."
Ethan threw down, feeling the frustration and upset welling up inside him like an overflowing bathtub. He felt stupid for blurting it out and angry at Mark for trying to push this - for imposing rules as if Ethan was some kid and not a grown man capable of making his own choices. "How would you even get a security team on campus, huh? What, are you gonna enrol them all as students too?"
"I have my ways," Mark answered calmly, though his knuckles were slowly going white where he was gripping his own folded arms.
"All the colleges in a thirty mile radius are closed campus!" he pointed out, voice rising a little.
"Meaning you could get trapped in there with someone."
"Meaning you need a campus pass to even get through the gate."
"You say that like it's hard," Mark answered levelly, something in his eyes hardening. His voice was as grounded as it had been throughout the entire argument but there were small tells of his building frustration in his body language.
"All colleges need money. A generous enough donation is all I'd need if I wanted a team of people on the inside with no questions asked," he continued.
"No," Ethan ground out.
"If you think I'm going to let you spend seven hours a day alone in a public area you're wrong," Mark announced, sitting up straighter in his seat, exuding the air of no arguments. "I'll buy out the security firm on the campus if I have to. Or I'll switch officers on my payroll to that jurisdiction."
"If you pay someone to spy on me while I'm at campus I'll throw Ahnjong's other mug in a blender and tell her it was you," Ethan growled. For a moment Mark gave the quietest chuff, as if only barely amused by the idea before he set his hands on the table.
"I'm serious, Ethan," Mark noted earnestly, leaning forwards a little, boring into Ethan's eyes with his own dark gaze. "I need to protect you."
"Cute," Ethan snarked back, shoving himself to his feet and dumping the rest of his plate into the food bin.
"I feel like you're not taking this seriously," Mark muttered from behind him, gaze turning down onto the table surface as if should he try hard enough he could burn right through it with his eyes.
"I take my education plenty seriously, thanks," Ethan snapped back, rounding on him.
"And I take your safety seriously. Ethan. Why are you trying to fight me on this? I just want to keep you safe," Mark sounded pained, looking up at him with an almost wounded gaze.
"Why? Would it be too much effort and paperwork to replace me with some other paperwork husband?" Ethan shot back spitefully, glowering.
"What—? Because I care about you," Mark looked perplexed, pushing himself to his feet, taking a step around the table and towards Ethan. "What are you talking about; paperwork?"
"You care?!" Ethan cried, emotions building to tidal wave that threatened to sweep him away and drown him. "You don't care about me! I don't even know why you bothered to marry me when it's so obvious that you love Amy! I have no family, no friends, and a husband who's in love with someone else! That isn't caring, Mark!"
Biting back his tears he stomped past the mafia Don, nimbly dodging the hand that reached gently for his arm. He fled up the stairs and into his room, slamming his door and flinging himself back under the covers.
Mark didn't follow.
He must've fallen asleep at some point amidst muffling his sniffles into his pillow because he woke up to the sound of gentle knocking on his door. He was tempted to ignore it but he knew that the longer he pushed Mark away the worse the fallout of their argument would become so he shifted with a sigh, moving to sit with his knees tucked up to his chest.
"What?" he called out roughly, rubbing at his eyes where his tears had dried and left his skin irritated and flaky with salt.
The door opened slowly to reveal Mark, who looked just as weary and worn down as he did. Mark had changed at some point into a soft cream sweater that clung to his shoulders and made him look rounded off and warm. Touchable. Less like a magazine cut-out and more like something real. The light red smudges under his eyes took away some of that perfectly polished veneer.
"This was just delivered. It had your name on it... And I thought you might like some chamomile and honey tea. For your throat," Mark spoke up after a moment, indicating the package under one of his arms and the steaming mug in the other.
Blinking in surprise, Ethan used his sleeve to wipe at his eyes again before he gave a small nod. Taking the permission, Mark stepped further into the room and set the mug down on the vanity besides Ethan's bed. Up close he looked even more exhausted than Ethan had initially noticed. As if the argument had sapped him of all his strength. It was the least put-together Ethan had ever seen him.
Mark took a light seat on the edge of the bed, as if worried Ethan'd bite him if he came too close, and set the package between them. As Ethan reached for it Mark's gaze found the photograph on the vanity; Ethan and his family in the park near his old house, bundled up in warm coats and covered in snowflakes where it'd snowed that winter. So much so that the area had shut down for two days while gritters and ploughs got to work clearing the main streets and roads.
He focused on opening the packing and did his best to ignore Mark's presence, a little of the annoyance and hurt fading away as he pulled the box out and traced his thumb over the logo and the image before using his nail to pick at the tape sealing it shut.
"Is that a Switch?" Mark asked quietly from besides him, leaning over a little to peer curiously at the box.
"Yeah," Ethan nodded, upending it when he got it open so that the styrofoam padding fell out and revealed the carefully slotted in parts. He tossed the box aside and Mark picked it up, gazing down at it with a queer expression.
"I used to love gaming," Mark murmured, sounding far away in his own thoughts. Ethan paused as he picked up the screen, risking a glance up at Mark. "My father and I used to play on this old '64 he found at a garage sale once," he continued and Ethan's heart skipped a little. Mark almost never spoke about his father - save to tell Ethan that he'd died of a heart attack when Mark was a teenager.
"He used to kick my ass on Mario Kart all the time. He bought me the Wii for my birthday and we spent so long on it that Mom turned off the electricity to the whole house just so we'd go to bed."
Mark looked caught between sadness and fondness at the memory, suddenly looking thirty years younger where he sat on the edge of Ethan's bed, bundled up in a sweater, hair soft and unkempt, gaze glazed over in reminiscence. Ethan stared at him for long that his vision began to blur and he had to remember to blink. It was almost strange to think of Mark as some lanky teen glued to his console, side by side on the couch with his Dad.
"Do you... Want to help me set it up?" he asked hesitantly. Mark looked up at him with gentle surprise, then obligingly took the instruction booklet that Ethan handed him. Ethan was struck by how adorable it was to watch Mark stare intently at the little words, nose scrunching in concentration, teeth occasionally set on his tongue, cinnamon-stick-dark eyes flicking quickly over the text.
For a short while they sat there in relative silence, with Ethan poking and prodding at everything splayed out on his bed and Mark murmuring something here and there to guide them both into putting together the console.
As they sat there in the glow of the start-up screen, Mark spoke.
"Amy and I grew up together."
Ethan's chest hollowed out.
"She's the daughter of one of the mafia's long-term silent beneficiaries. She saw me picking up a butterfly with a broken wing when we were twelve and she yelled at me in front of the entire gathering for ten minutes because she thought I'd hurt it." Mark's plush mouth took on a rueful smile. "She hit me with her purse, too. Dad said that was my first lesson in the wrath of women and why you never piss off a lady."
"She very quickly became a sister-figure that I came to rely on as a guide to keep me level-headed and in my place," Mark continued, glancing across at him. "I consider her family. And I love her the way I love my brother and my Mom. She's like my Jiminy Cricket."
Ethan swallowed, feeling vaguely faint as he stared at Mark, who seemed to have moved closer in the time that Ethan's guts had dropped to the flor and picked themselves back up again.
"She came over last night. Although I'm getting the inkling you already knew that," Mark noted, head tipping slightly. He looked so earnest, dark eyes wide, expressions soft as though he was pleading with Ethan to listen. "She came over because... This week, ripples reached me about someone planning to... To take you away, and be rather unkind to you in an attempt to extort power from me."
Ethan blinked, suddenly awash in the icy sensation again, mind scrambling desperately to catch up. His dawning horror must've shown on his face because Mark shifted closer, reaching out to ever so gently brush his hand against Ethan's.
"I took care of it. Nobody is going to touch you - I'll never let them. And she came over to be an ear, to listen to me and let me outlet my frustrations about it all. My fears." Mark looked down, eyes hidden behind a long veil of thick, black lashes. "I know I haven't been the best husband. I know that our marriage so far has just been, as you put it, paperwork. Which is entirely my fault, I accept that. But I've..."
Mark blew out a breath. "I've tried to keep you as far away from all of this as I can. From the mob, the life and the risks. From who and what I am. Because you're better than all of it. Kinder, innocent, gentler. I didn't want you to be dragged into something that would take all of that and ruin it."
Tears prickled at the corners of Ethan's eyes and he shifted, spooking a little when the Switch gave a loud chime to signal it was booted up and ready to be configured. Mark reached out and tapped on a few of the buttons before allowing him full control of the device again, nudging the open manual closer where Ethan could read it.
"The threats made against you are just one part of why I've tried to keep my distance from you. Which I see now is wrong. Both you, Amy and my Mom have all made that very clear," Mark gave a light smile, head shaking a little. "I'm... Freely willing to admit that I have no idea what I'm doing. Or what to do about it all. I can't let you get close to the mob but I can't keep you at arm's length without hurting you."
Ethan stared at Mark helplessly, suddenly wishing he had a pause button for reality so he could just stop the world for a moment and breathe. To organise through everything that had happened over the past few days. Time to process everything from kidnap threats to Mark's nerdy side. As if the universe wanted to smack him around a little more Mark's palm settled against the side of his cheek, gentle and warm, catching his attention.
"I do care about you, Ethan. More than I think you'll ever believe I'm capable of," Mark noted softly, looking at him intently. Ethan felt like Mark's eyes were melted chocolate and he was sinking into them, helpless to do anything but drown in molten sweetness.
"Maybe I'm not in love with you yet. But I know for a fact you're not in love with me either. Neither of us have been fair enough to the other to allow for that," Mark murmured, thumb sweeping gently over the soft curve of Ethan's cheekbone. "But I care about you. So much. And the terrifying thing is that I know how easily I could love you. Which only makes the risk of losing you that much worse."
Mark let him go then, leaning back enough that Ethan could suck in a shaky breath, slouching back against his headboard with his heart doing it's level best to batter it's way out of his chest. His mind was reeling, staggering over every word without a damn idea of where to start with this whole mess. He felt a little like he might throw up.
"If you want to go to school... I'll settle for you allowing Seán to be there. No other security team - but you keep my number on speed-dial. And maybe have a panic button on your bag."
"Sure, Dad," Ethan croaked, unsure of what to say. Mark levelled him with a sardonic look but it was cracked by the tilt of his mouth that threatened to form a full smile.
"Whatever, smart-mouth. Now scoot and teach me how to play this thing." Mark shuffled up next to him so they were both side by side against the headboard, his muscular shoulder burning hot where it leaned against Ethan's.
"I don't even know how to play it," Ethan huffed, thumbing one of the controls to revive the screen. Mark let his head loll, casting Ethan a smile that was unbearably soft.
"Then maybe this is the first thing we can learn to do together," Mark murmured, leaning against him a little more, as if it was the equivalent of taking his hand.
Ethan turned his gaze back to the console, cheeks simmering like hot coals.
As the hours passed and they stayed side by side like that, learning how to set up the Switch then how to play various games, fighting over the controls and vying to beat each other's scores, Ethan realised that, yeah.
It'd be easy to learn to love Mark, too.