Chapter Text
It definitely isn’t a date.
Mark tells himself this again and again and again—it isn’t a date. It isn’t a date, he is friends with Ethan, and friends hang out all the time in situations like this. Not to mention he’s, like, the perfect person to bring along bar hopping, because he can’t drink. Designated sober driver and man of eloquent decisions.
Sometimes. Eloquent, all except for when it comes to Ethan Nestor. The true fucking enigma to his feelings—he can’t fucking place it. He doesn’t want to feel for Ethan, and for all intents and purposes, he tells himself that he doesn’t. The club is loud, but Ethan’s arguably louder—maybe that’s just because he’s yelling in Mark’s ear. The latter raises his hands and gives a small repetitive pushing motion downwards on the air, silently begging him to lower his voice even slightly.
Eyes scan the bar; no one seems to be staring. Maybe it’s just that Ethan’s loud, but not louder than everyone else’s party screaming over the music. Maybe Mark’s just quiet. The bar isn’t really his element, not anymore. He can’t remember the last time he actually stepped foot in one.
Ethan isn’t…drunk. Not drunk drunk—tipsy, maybe; definitely not shitfaced. Tipsy enough to where he gets touchy—Ethan’s an affectionate drunk, or, Mark supposes handsy drunk is more like it, not that he’d particularly read into it all too much on sleepless nights or anything—and slings an arm around Mark’s shoulders, resting his chin against his head. Mark doesn’t disturb him, only swirls his cream soda on the rocks in his glass a tiny bit bitterly.
Alcohol could really ease the tension of his thoughts right now.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Ethan is rambling about something now; he has been for the last however many minutes, but Mark hasn’t really been paying that much attention thanks to his own brain and the intensely loud surrounding environment. He supposes it wouldn’t be that hard to zone into whatever Ethan’s saying, given his volume is probably only one tick below the rest of the bar, but he won’t think about it too much.
“Can we get some fresh air?” The words take a moment to float through Mark’s ear and really process inside the spinning cogs of his mind, though once they do make sense to him, he leans back against where Ethan has draped half of himself.
He parts his lips to speak, hesitates for only a second, and settles on, “Sure, bud, let’s get you outta here.”
The walk is awkward—of course it is, with Mark having to half-carry a clumsy, partially-drunk Ethan through a crowd of people who are just as, if not more, fucked up than he is. Despite his gymnastic abilities, the guy is clumsy sober, so being inebriated does not help either of them at all. But once they’re finally at the door and the cold air rushes in, Ethan tumbles away from Mark and finds himself busy dancing (frankly, he looks quite stupid, though only Mark would be able to find it so goddamn adorable) in the chilly Autumn air.
“Mark, look!” Ethan cheers in that silly, nasally voice he does sometimes—the effects of alcohol make it just a tad more slurred than normal—as he steps atop a curb stop, throwing his arms out to either side of himself for balance. He steps carefully along it, one shaky foot after another, tongue poking between his lips with intense focus.
In tandem with the breathy laugh that falls off Mark’s lips, the air around it swirls in wispy white. “I’m looking, I’m looking,” he assures, tucking his hands away in the pockets of his jeans. He saunters closer, just a precaution to catch a stumbling Ethan if need be, eyeing the parking lot.
Realistically, it wasn’t exactly the best idea to head out in a t-shirt and jeans in the middle of Autumn, but Mark hadn’t exactly been freezing his ass off upon arriving at the bar in the first place. Someone had decided that it was an absolutely stellar idea to blast the hot air in the car on high, so excuse him if a little bit of cold air was a relief back then.
He’s sort of regretting it now. Not like he can’t handle it—just that Mark wouldn’t exactly turn down the offer of someone’s jacket or something. But he’s absolutely and totally fine going without. Definitely. Hands remove from pockets to rub at his arms as he glances around one more time. The car isn’t too far away.
“Fuck—”
Mark’s arms shoot out in an instant as Ethan, predictably, falls. The latter leans against him, giggly and warm; he’s so warm—Mark shoves his thoughts away and rights the smaller male onto his feet again. “Maybe don’t walk on curbs while you’re tipsy,” he suggests.
“But I’m so good at balancing, I was a—” a small hiccup that Mark finds stupidly adorable— “I was a gymnast, Mark.”
“I know you were, but even gymnasts probably can’t walk straight while drunk,” Mark bargains as he continues to walk. He picks up the pace marginally, the cold starting to bite at him a bit more than he finds pleasant.
“Where are you going?” whines the brunet as he scrambles behind him.
“To the car?” Mark raises an eyebrow. “Wasn’t that the plan?”
“Yeah but you’re walking so fast—can’t keep up,” he slurs out. His voice is almost consistently that whiny, intentionally slurred and nasally tone that he’d gotten so used to while filming Unus Annus. The name of the channel alone sends a small pang through his heart—he misses it, sure, but he misses Ethan more. Misses having an excuse to hang out with him like this almost every day all day.
“Was I?” He forces himself to falter as Ethan catches up to him again. The brunet nods his head, tousled hair flopping with the intensity. “Didn’t mean to.”
“You were trying to run from me,” Ethan accuses with wide eyes and a finger pointed directly between his eyes. It’s a false statement, an obvious tease, but Mark can’t help but raise a brow anyway as a tiny grin tugs at his lips. “How dare you.”
“How dare I?” He echoes in faux-sincerity, stopping his walking entirely in the realization that Ethan was standing directly in front of him and definitely not moving. “Excuse me,” he interjects, gesturing to the brunet that stands in his way. “Are we walking or not?”
“You were trying to run from me,” Ethan murmurs again in mock-shock, his eyes squinting as he clicks his tongue. It’s something so perfectly Ethan that Mark finds it so stupidly endearing. His eyebrow is still raised as a hand settles against Ethan’s shoulder, beginning to gently nudge him aside.
“Come on,” he coaxes. “To the car.”
“Why?” Ethan drops the act and whines once more, but falls in step beside him. “What’s the rush? Why do you wanna get back so bad?”
“Because it’s fuckin’ cold?” Mark finally concedes. “I didn’t bring a jacket.”
“That was dumb.”
“You’re dumb,” Mark mutters under his breath playfully, to which he hears Ethan gasp in offense.
“Rude. I was gonna offer you my jacket and everything.” Ethan gives a sigh and dramatically shrugs his shoulders. “Alas.”
“You were gonna offer me your jacket?” Mark repeats, a bit baffled by the statement. “Really?”
“Why not? You’re cold, and I’m very warm. I don’t fuckin’ want this anyway.” He shrugs his jacket off his shoulders and all but throws it at Mark. “Put it on. It might be a little small, though…I don’t have quite as big, uh…” A long pause. Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. Ethan fumbles before settling on, “muscles. Don’t have quite as big muscles as you.”
“Right.” Mark eyes the admittedly small jacket in his hands before slowly sliding his arms through. It’s not small enough not to fit, but he probably shouldn’t do any laborious movements lest he rip the seams. It’s warm, though, and it’s soft—it’s good, for now. “Uh, thank—thank you.”
“You are so very welcome, Mr. Mark-i-plier.” He accentuates the ‘i’ as Mark himself does for his own skits or comedic videos, and it makes Mark smile a little wider.
It doesn’t take a lot more to get Ethan into the car (finally), thankfully, and Mark dramatizes it a little bit when he says he’s dropping Ethan off at his place. He assumes Ethan doesn’t think too much of it when he plays a little too much into the sort of caring boyfriend role, but it’s not a problem if he can give a little, take a little. That’s all it is, anyway—a role, a bit, a joke.
Nothing more.
So, as the car rolls to a stop, Ethan begins tiredly fumbling with the handle of the door. “I’m trapped,” he says, pitching downward to replicate a sense of sadness that really isn’t there at all. “You’ve trapped me, you big, beautiful bastard.”
Mark scoffs, eyes the road to the side, and then steps out of the front seat. “I have not,” he replies, curving the front of the car and gently tugging the passenger door open for the other man. “Mr. Noodle Arms is just incapable of opening the door all by himself,” he teases.
Ethan snorts a little, making something reminiscent of childish ghost noises as he flails his arms in front of Mark’s face. “Ooo,” he murmurs, “noodle arms.”
“Yeah, yeah, let’s get you inside before you pass out and make things, like, a gazillion times harder for me.”
“You have to carry me,” Ethan remarks.
“I am not carrying you.”
A pout forms on Ethan’s lips, half-lopsided in the way he can’t smother the grin from his face. “Why not? I’m not heavy—are you calling me fat, Mark?”
“Okay, now you’re just putting words into my mouth,” Mark says, a smile tugging at the very edge of his lips now as well. He pulls the door open just a smidge further, then offers his hand to the brunet sitting snugly inside. “Your highness,” rolls off his tongue in a playful tone.
And so Ethan hums and takes it, giggling still even as they walk the short path up a few steps and to the front door. Mark has to help him get the keys and unlock the door, too, but after that he swears that he can handle everything else on his own (and notes that he might’ve let Mark help a little more if he allowed him to have been carried up instead).
“Don’t get yourself killed before I get home.”
Ethan blows a puff of hair up underneath his bangs. “No promises,” he says, stepping inside the familiar warmth of his home. “I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m hungover as shit?”
Mark grins and rolls his eyes. “I’ll make sure to bring some meds.”
“Morning after pills?” Ethan teases with a snort, and Mark scoffs, his eyes falling to the floor.
“Yeah, call ‘em what you want. They’ll help. Probably.”
“You wouldn’t know,” Ethan supplies, filling in the blanks. “You can’t get drunk.”
“Yes, thank you,” Mark commends. “Your memory is truly astonishing, Nestor.”
Ethan grins as well, taking a step forward. “I want a hug before you go. C’mere.” He grabs his shoulders and tugs him into a hug before Mark can process, but the latter is happy to lean into him and wrap his arms around him in turn. He’s still warm, and Mark loves the feeling of being close to him. “Drive safe, okay? Text me. When you get back, I mean.”
“Okay, mom,” Mark gently pokes, and Ethan swats his shoulder.
“You’re the one who’s been acting like my boyfriend all night.”
Mark tries not to tense, and he thinks he succeeds well enough, anyway. “You’re drunk,” Mark plays off. “You’re reading into things way too much. I’m just taking—” a breath, and he rephrases— “I’m just making sure you don’t die. Someone has to.”
Ethan nods, giving a drawn out ‘uh-huuuh’ that Mark chooses to pointedly ignore. “I’ll text you,” the latter promises. “Don’t worry.”
Ethan nods one more time, giving Mark another pat on the shoulder. “Okay. I’ll—I’ll see you soon, then. Call as promised.” A beat of contemplative silence. “Yeah.”
Mark nods once more, and he takes a step back out of the doorway. He finally turns as a dog begins barking from inside, prompting Ethan to yell out a slurred, “Spencer!” as the door finally closes. Mark doesn’t look back, even if he wants to. Even if he wants nothing more than to stay, to not leave at all, to not let the door shut.
But he can’t.
As he gets into his car, he feels like he’s forgetting something, but he puts the car into drive before he can overthink too much and find himself back at Ethan’s doorstep again.
Whatever it is, if it isn’t important enough to immediately remember, then it could wait until tomorrow—after Mark sorts through his complicated feelings surrounding Ethan for the nth time.