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“Do you know how pretty you are, Marco?”
Robert likes saying things like that, after they’ve fucked.
They don’t make love, never have, no matter how hard the wretched little voice inside Marco’s head tries to convince him otherwise. There’s a voice of reason too, somewhere, but it flails and writhes like a wounded snake, beaten and scared, whenever Robert’s around.
A gasp escapes Marco when Robert threads his fingers through his hair. His hands are always cold. Icy like the blue of his eyes, sharp as a razor blade. Where they’re caressing his cheekbone now, they might as well be cutting through the skin.
Marco’s body is flushed hot all over from their earlier rendezvous—so why are his lips trembling as if he’s been left to die in the cold?
“You’re thinking again. Overthinking. With that pretty head of yours.”
Robert flashes him his million-dollar smile; the smile that flaunts on billboards and the front pages of every self-respecting magazine, and suddenly, Marco forgives him.
He reaches out a hand, lets it hover above Robert’s face in a state of indecision. Is he not allowed to touch him, after everything they’ve done? After every sticky breath they’ve shared, every scratch of nails, every brush of skin, down, down, and further down still.
And now he hesitates to touch?
His heartbeat rumbles in his ears, and he relives the might of a roaring stadium, can almost discern the stench of mud and sweat in the air. Can almost feel Robert’s laughter beneath him in the grass. Ringing, deafening.
He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, be louder than Robert’s grip on him for once, but his throat contracts, breathless—
His voice breaks on a ghost, a whispered “I love you.”
Robert’s smile fades, and Marco drops his hand onto the empty sheets, where Robert considers his job done. He stands up, the muscles of his broad back flexing, and he doesn’t look at Marco when he says:
“Bus leaves at nine. I’d hate to miss breakfast, and there’s a briefing scheduled before our departure. You know how it is.”
Of course. Marco knows how it is.
After the shower’s stopped running, he follows Robert into the bathroom. From the doorway, he eyes him in the grand mirror stretching along the wall; how he combs his hair, shaves the perfect cut of his jaw.
Marco’s memory paints Robert’s face as clear as day—from the uneven bump of his nose and the dimples in his cheeks to the last streak of grey in his hairline— but he has yet to grow tired of watching him.
Then, he looks at himself and is met by pale skin and carved lines under his eyes, is met by emptiness. Freckles mingle with blossoming hickeys along the plane of his chest; the daylight proof they have fucked.
The proof they don’t make love, and never will.
Pretty, Robert calls him, and pretty he once may have been, before Robert stole the light from his eyes.
“I love you,” Marco says, louder this time, and the damp tiles repeat his words back at him in mockery.
Robert raises his head, and their eyes lock in the mirror. A flower breaking through layers of frost, green meeting blue, a phantom of a morning routine that will never take place in their lives.
He turns around, steps closer, and… How dare he look upon him with pity?
“Marco, that’s not—“
How dare he shake his head, how dare he sigh like Marco’s not worth his precious time? Like all they are, all they’ve ever been, can be erased by a wave of his hand—must be forgotten as soon as their bodies untangle from their sweet embrace.
“Look, I’m already running late. I have to get going.”
One last smile, dishonest. Volatile.
Marco does not move until he hears Robert’s car speed off.
Back in his room, he punches the wall with so much force that his knuckles split open. He stares at the blood trickling down his fingers, stares at the red blotches on the white wallpaper. He stares at the ceiling, and he stares at the door that’s never locked and yet no one ever comes back through.
The anger will ebb, because it always does.
All he has to do is wait, if only for a while.
Just a little bit longer.