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Mark is dead on his feet, but several years of freelance photography and waiting tables have trained his autopilot well. He puts on the best face he can, orders Oliver into the passenger seat of his shitty car, and drives to the nearest McDonald’s with the loudest, most obnoxious metal music playing at full volume if only to keep him awake. Oliver doesn’t even protest; he buckles up and hugs the book to his chest with a somewhat empty look in his eyes.
Usually, Mark would make a quip about Oliver’s unusual vow of silence, but he senses this isn’t the time. The hundred hours out of time look like they’re settling into him; he has deep gray circles under his eyes, and he’s almost as pale as when they first met on that horrible night in the AM.
He orders four Big Macs, two large fries, and a Coke to share, parks on the shoulder of a road he knows he probably shouldn’t, and shoves half of the food into Oliver’s lap. He kills the engine and the music, lets the car fill with blaring silence. His veins burn with alchemy; his fingers itch with longing; his words catch in his throat when he tries to speak what’s on his mind, what’s been on his mind since the moment he woke up and Oliver was gone.
“Will you put the goddamn book down and eat?” he begs instead of forming the words he aches to make real. He’s tempted to just pull the ledger out of the alchemist’s arms, but he knows Oliver well enough to realize that’s a bad idea. Mark may be good on autopilot, but he isn’t sure he has the energy to de-escalate a panic attack or chase him down if he runs again. Food, then sleep, then grab the fucking book, then plan.
Mark still expects this to be an argument, but Oliver just sighs and sets the book carefully on the dashboard before gesturing for the soda. Mark hands it over and watches him slurp half of it up in one gulp. He follows it with a handful of fries that he barely chews.
Mark is a little glad he had to get CPR trained for his last job. “Figured you’d be hungry,” he murmurs.
Oliver shrugs, but he’s already opening one of the burgers. “I’ve gone longer with less,” he mutters and, well, fuck, Mark has, too. He’s tempted to snark back, to remind Oliver that he’s not special for being fucked up, but he holds his tongue.
Instead, he snatches the soda back and rattles the ice before biting onto the straw. For a few moments, the car is silent save for the sound of crinkling wrappers and ravenous chewing. Mark picks at his own burger and fries, hungry after a day of work and driving, but he’s too anxious to stomach much more than a few bites.
Oliver had insisted he isn’t part of a cult, that he isn’t part of a kidnapping plot, but Mark still has a bad feeling about all of this. Maybe it’s just his paranoia creeping up again; maybe it’s because that Blackwell man gave him the creeps. Regardless, he doesn’t think he likes the dazed, manic look buried behind the glaze in Oliver’s tired eyes.
He knows that look. It’s the one he had when he was elbow-deep in Joan’s dusty cabinet, feeling for the mini-bottle of vodka he had stashed behind the fine china she had never wanted to inherit from Grandma. It’s the one Sam gets when she thinks she is helping but she’s really making it worse.
It’s the one that was trained on him at the AM by good people whose curiosity got too strong when Mark was too weak.
Oliver catches him staring. “I’m not about to disappear in front of you,” he says, still nibbling on the last bit of his burger. Mark watches a flush rise to his cheeks as he speaks. “I’m not Director Barnes.”
Then why did you fucking leave? Mark wants to ask. Why did you let me wake up alone?
He shrugs as nonchalantly as he can and starts the car. “Let’s go find a hotel and get some rest.”
They pull up to the Days Inn around one in the morning. Oliver wrinkles his nose at the flickering light in the parking lot, distrustful of the darkness. Mark just hopes that someone non-threatening is manning the desk.
Mark isn’t used to people following him blindly, but despite his wariness of the hotel itself, it seems like Oliver trusts him enough to not question when he sets off toward the entrance without a word. Oliver stays close behind, the damn ledger cradled in his arms again.
Mark is too tired to deal with this crap. He throws his credit card on the counter, tries not to think about how close he is to the limit, and smiles at the tired receptionist with all the charm he can muster.
“Hi,” he says to break the ice, but it doesn’t even make a dent. The young woman has blue hair, smudged eyeliner, and an absolutely unimpressed expression. Mark clears his throat and tries again. “Um. Hi. Sorry about the — I know it’s late, but my friend and I are kind of in a bind. Is there any chance you have an open room?”
The receptionist slowly unwraps a piece of gum and pops it into her mouth as she swivels her chair toward the computer, eyeing Oliver warily. “This isn’t some drug detox thing, is it?” she asks as she takes the mouse and starts to click around. “You’re better off in an Airbnb for that kind of thing.”
Oliver’s mouth drops in indignation. “Excuse me, do I look —“
Mark grabs him by the shoulder as tightly as he can and ignores the squeak that results. The answer is a resounding yes — Mark would know — but he’s really not in the mood for that conversation right now. “No, it’s — it’s just been a long day. Family emergency in the area. We’re from Boston.” He flashes her his most pitiful eyes. “Please. If you’ve got anything.”
The receptionist looks between him and Oliver for a moment before blowing a bubble and shrugging. “Yeah, we’ve got a bunch of vacancies,” she says and taps something out on the keyboard. “Good friends, huh?”
Oliver tenses, but he brings his hand up to Mark’s to squeeze it once before ducking away from the grip. “Yeah,” he mutters, affectionate. “The best.”
She’s still tapping away, brow furrowed as she looks at the screen. “None of my friends would come all the way from Boston if I had a family emergency. Oh, here’s a room that’s clean. Name?”
“Mark Bryant,” Mark responds automatically, and cringes. “Wait, no. Um, Byron Bryant. That’s what’s on my ID.”
“That’s the family emergency,” Oliver quips, and Mark can’t even bring himself to glare.
The receptionist snorts at the joke as she types in Mark’s information. Every so often, she asks a question or passes Mark a pen to sign something, but a majority of the transaction takes place in silence.
Mark doesn’t like quiet, doesn’t like the buzzing fluorescent lights, doesn’t like the thrumming in his veins as Oliver stands so close and is still so far.
“It’s sort of, um, our family emergency,” Mark amends after a moment. He needs to make conversation; he needs to make noise. It’s not even a lie, really — now that he knows Caleb is involved in all of this mess, it’s somehow even more personal than before. Maybe he should have expected this; atypicals are the most dysfunctional family in the world besides the Bryants. “So… yeah.”
The receptionist hums in sympathy as she yanks open a drawer and removes two keycards. “I’ll be right back,” she says, passes Mark his credit card and ID, and slips off her stool before disappearing through a door to the back.
Mark tucks his wallet into his back pocket with a sigh. The adrenaline of the day has fully worn off; now, he just feels like there is lead in his bones pleading with him to lie down right here on the floor and sleep forever.
“It wasn’t an emergency.” Oliver speaks quietly, but his voice is ragged with regret. “I was fine.”
Mark jumps, startled, but tries not to let his surprise show. He taps his fingers on the counter and does his best to channel all his anger and frustration and confusion through them. “Like you were fine when you left my apartment without a word and then didn’t pick up the phone for a week?”
Oliver had been swaying sleepily on his feet, but he stiffens at this, jaw clenching and arms tightening around the ledger. “Yes,” he says firmly. “Just fucking fine. I can handle myself, Byron. I don’t need to be rescued.”
Mark begs to differ — he saw the empty panic in Oliver’s eyes in that library — but he doesn’t have time to retort before the receptionist emerges with a small pamphlet, their room keys, and a bored expression.
“This is your room,” she says, and points to a number circled on the inside of the pamphlet with her long, neon nails. “The wifi, checkout hours, complimentary breakfast, room service — all in here.”
Mark snatches the pamphlet up. “Thanks.”
The girl looks between them skeptically and blows another bubble. “No luggage?”
Oliver snorts. “What do you think?”
“Hm.” The girl hits a key on her keyboard and shoots them her fakest smile. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay at the Days Inn. Please call the front desk if you have any questions or problems,” she says and promptly places a plaque on the counter declaring boldly “DO NOT DISTURB.”
Mark gets the hint. He grabs Oliver by the elbow and tugs him toward the elevator. “Let’s go the fuck to bed.”
Oliver is malleable and soft under Mark’s touch; he lets himself be led like Eurydice following Orpheus out of Hades, all trust and blind faith despite his indignation, despite whatever Blackwell has been whispering in his ear, despite the fact that he left.
Mark wonders if they are doomed to the lovers’ fate or if they’ll find their way out of this hell of their own making.
There is only one bed.
“Fuck,” Mark and Oliver mutter in unison when they finally enter their room. It had been a joint effort, Mark fiddling with the finicky keycard reader while Oliver leaned against the jammed door with all of his body weight. They’re both a little breathless now, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder in the door frame, chests heaving and sweat beaded on the backs of their necks as they stare into the dimly lit suite.
Mark had told her that they were friends. He almost wants to laugh — the amount of times that he’s had to fight receptionists to receive a single King bed with a boyfriend or one night stand, and now they’re just handing them out to two guys who happen to be standing maybe a little closer than usual to each other. It’s not his fault that he was afraid Oliver would collapse or run or hide if he wasn’t within arm’s reach.
Mark glances over at Oliver and tries to suppress the anxious fluttering in his chest, but Oliver isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at the singular bed in the middle of the hotel room like it’s on fire.
They’re just friends.
God, Mark wishes he could believe himself.
“Um.” He clears his throat and steps inside to get a better look at the accommodations. In addition to the bed and matching nightstands, there’s a small desk, a dresser, and a lumpy couch crammed in the corner. “I’ll take the couch? I think it’s a pullout.”
Oliver follows suit and shuts the door behind him, wrinkling his nose as he flips the lights on. He’s got the book tucked under his arm, but the shock of seeing the room seems to have drained away some of his enthusiastic protectiveness. “Don’t trust me on the couch again, then?” he jokes, but Mark isn’t in the mood for this shit.
“Exactly,” he snaps back and storms over to unfold the mattress from the cushions. Oliver watches from a distance, amused.
Mark barely touches it before the entire structure implodes. He jumps back from the creaky metal rods before they land on his feet with a muffled shout, keenly aware that the walls in this hotel are probably paper thin.
Oliver is stifling a laugh from his spot by the door. If Mark wasn’t so tired and annoyed, it might’ve been endearing. As it is, his heart still soars to hear the sound.
Fuck.
Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Oliver does know what he’s doing, maybe this is perfectly safe and Mark is just too stupid to understand the intricacies of an ability that feels like searing flames and tastes like blood and copper. Maybe he’s holding a dumb grudge.
Maybe they are just friends, and sharing a bed shouldn’t be a big deal.
Oliver has bags under his eyes and a pale pallor that seems to glow under the streaks of moonlight let in by the slatted curtains, and he’s swaying slightly on his feet from exhaustion. Blackwell’s stupid fucking book is in his hand, and isn’t it just pathetic that Mark’s anger is rising at the idea that Oliver would hold it so gingerly and not him?
He is not jealous of a book. He is not.
Mark growls at the pile of sheets and pillows at his feet, frustrated already at what he knows he needs to do. He drags a blanket around his shoulders, hugs a few pillows to his chest, and takes a deep breath. “I’m sleeping in the tub,” he decides resolutely, and makes his way toward the bathroom.
It shouldn’t be too difficult to construct a quasi-bed in the bathtub — he’s done it plenty of times before while in college, while on tour, while with Damien. All Mark needs to do is line the bottom with the comforter and some pillows, and he’ll be good as gold. He’s a bit tall for it now, but he can deal with a few aches and pains if it means avoiding the blood-curdling awkwardness that comes with the potential accidental cuddling that comes with sharing a bed.
Anyway.
Mark is prepared to sacrifice his spine for the few hours of sleep he desperately needs, but before he can cross the threshold to the bathroom, Oliver takes hold of his arm and tugs him back.
“You’re not sleeping in the fucking bathtub, Byron,” he says, scoffing. His grip is surprisingly strong, and his hand is warm through the layers of Mark’s sleeve. “Jesus Christ, you’re ridiculous.”
Mark yanks himself free, but can’t bring himself to argue. He cannot think of a single reason that would not incriminate his heart.
If Oliver wants to share the bed, then fine. Mark will be alright. Mark can manage this. Mark survived Tier Five, so he can obviously survive a night on the same mattress as the man he thinks he’s fallen in love with.
“You’re the one who got trapped in a basement by a book,” he mumbles, blushing, and shuffles away to dump the pile of sheets and pillows on the bed. He claims the side closer to the door, kicks off his shoes, and collapses onto the comforter. All the fight and anxiety and anger has evaporated, leaving him numb and exhausted.
“You better not be sleeping in your clothes,” Oliver chides, finally entering the main area of the room. Mark watches as he deposits the book carefully on the bedside table and sits on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes. Oliver glances over his shoulder at Mark as he drops the loafers back to the carpet. “I’m serious, Byron, that’s disgusting. These are clean sheets.” He wrinkles his nose, considering his words. “Well, I hope they are.”
Mark chooses not to burst his bubble. “I didn’t exactly stop home to pick up pajamas when I got your voicemail,” he says instead. “What, do you have something to change into? Can you pull clothes out of the magic book?”
Oliver doesn’t seem to notice the sarcasm in his tone. “The ledger isn’t magic, it’s alchemy,” he corrects and starts to unbutton his shirt. Mark looks away, feeling his face turn hot. “And no, but sleeping in my undershirt is better than suffocating on whatever time fucked dust this shirt picked up while in the library.”
Unfortunately, he has a point. Mark groans as he drags himself to his feet and tugs his t-shirt over his head. He makes short work of his jeans and socks, deposits them all on the floor, and flops back into bed. He’ll sleep in his contacts; his glasses are all the way in the car and he doesn’t feel like stumbling around without them. “Better?”
Oliver is still undoing his belt, and his button-down is neatly folded on top of the book. “Yes, Byron, thank —” He stands and turns to remove his pants, but his eyes land on Mark and his cheeks flush pink. They may be just friends, but Mark won’t deny that it is satisfying to watch Oliver’s eyes go wide behind his glasses. “You’re just in your boxers.”
Mark shrugs. “I wasn’t wearing an undershirt,” he says simply.
They stare at each other wordlessly across the mattress, and for a moment, Mark thinks that Oliver is going to demand he put his clothes back on. Part of him doesn’t think he’d mind an extra layer of protection against the heat of Oliver’s body spreading across the sheets. He already feels close to combustion.
The other part of him is petty and stubborn.
“You told me to get undressed,” Mark points out as he pulls back the blanket and wiggles underneath it. He shoots Oliver a charming smile and hopes it hides the fact that his heart is pounding harder than it ever has. “Well? Are you ready for bed?”
Oliver clears his throat and shakes his head as if his mind is an Etch-a-Sketch. Mark is dying to know what thoughts he is erasing.
“Yeah,” Oliver says as he finishes stripping out of his trousers and folds them haphazardly. He tosses them onto the nightstand, throws his glasses down beside them, and fumbles to turn out the lamp. “Yeah, yeah, I’m — Let’s sleep.” He sighs and slips under the covers.
They lay there silently for a moment, staring at the ceiling while the darkness fills with the steady rhythm of their breathing. Oliver smells like the cologne Mark sent him last year for his birthday, and the fact that he’s wearing it even after he fled from the apartment in Boston makes the aching pain in his heart feel so sharp that it turns to pleasure. For a second, he considers reaching across the mattress and slipping his hand in Oliver’s, just to know what it would feel like to be held by him.
“Fuck.” Oliver sits straight, jostling the bed so much that Mark nearly falls off the edge. All thoughts of tenderness flee in the face of sheer panic.
“What? What?” Mark scrambles to think of what might be wrong this late at night. Oliver hasn’t been in bed long enough for it to be a nightmare, and he cannot think of anything in the room that could have set off this type of reaction.
Oliver turns to him, serious. “I don’t have a toothbrush.”
Mark blinks. “Go the fuck to sleep.”
“But I didn’t brush my teeth —”
“We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
“You didn’t —”
“Oliver.”
Oliver frowns stubbornly, his blue eyes gleaming in the streaks of moonlight that stream in through the window. “Fine,” he finally huffs. He lays down and yanks the blanket up around his shoulders. “Don’t complain when my breath stinks in the morning.”
Mark resists the urge to brush Oliver’s curls away from his face as he curls back under the covers and settles in for the night. He’ll take it as confirmation that Oliver will still be here when he wakes. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Ritz,” he says, laughing.
Mark does not know exactly when he started to fall for Oliver Ritz — they have a friendship built on shared trauma and different time zones and dozens and dozens of text messages about anything and everything except the past and future — but he thinks that if he were not already in love, the content sound Oliver makes when he finally drifts off would have been the final blow.
Mark is lulled to sleep by the soothing rhythm of Oliver’s snores and the flickering hope that when he wakes, his best friend will still be at his side.