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His head is swimming by the time he arrives in Cairo.
Luckily Khonshu seems to have faded into the back of his mind, unwilling to participate in the role of ‘fun travel buddy’, Marc spends the four hour plane ride stewing in an almost unsettling silence.
He’s able to keep Steven at bay; he doesn’t have too much of a problem with it since the other alter doesn’t have the experience like he does in terms of keeping close to the edge.
Despite that however, there is a brief moment where Marc swears he catches him in the reflection of the plane window, distorted and faded slightly, scowling at him with a crease between his brows and his mouth drawn into a downward curve.
He keeps the shutter down for the remainder of the flight after that.
He has only a rucksack of his belongings. His belongings. The ones that he’d kept stowed away in Steven’s apartment for when the moment had called for it. He wasn’t a fan of running around the world in layered patterned shirts and trousers that were about half a size too big for him. He’s got his own toothbrush, the gel he puts in his hair because Steven doesn’t ever bother. This is his stuff. He’s even got his Cubs embroidered hat because he knows Steven doesn’t think they’re the type to pull off wearing a baseball cap.
Little does he know, he scoffs to himself.
And the first thing Marc should really be doing when he leaves the airport is to scout out a place to stay; somewhere he can lay low. Somewhere cheap because all he has is what was left in Steven’s wallet. Because Steven works and Marc doesn’t, their little spat back in London hasn’t left him feeling too bad when he’d taken fistfuls of notes to exchange them back at the airport. He’d pay him back when it was all over, anyway. He had the duffel bag of money sitting under the floorboards just waiting to be used. That should keep him going until he finds another job.
But he doesn’t find a hotel straight away. He feels hot and tired and he drags himself into the first convenient store he finds. He takes a few bags of chips that he knows he’ll inevitably forget to eat, and spends the rest of his “spending money” on booze. The cashier rings him up, bored and unsuspecting and Marc thanks her with a curt nod of his head and makes his way out to the street in search of shelter.
And it doesn’t take long. There’s somewhere cheap and available and Marc takes it. He hauls his body up a flight of stairs and once he’s in his room, alone from the bustling streets, away from the hubbub and the noise does he feel the true extent of his blistering headache.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he launches his bag onto the bed. He sets down his bottles and the chip bags onto the end table, and before the heat can consume him entirely, he’s tugging off his shirt, flicking his jeans buttons open with a practiced maneuver of his thumb.
There’s a wall mirror, propped up in the corner of the room beside the bed. He doesn’t cover it up straight away but he manages to divert his eyes from it, holding his breath every time he thinks he’s going to hear Steven’s voice crop up in his head again.
But he doesn’t. He’s either staying quiet on purpose or Marc was right about him needing all the willpower he could use to stay somewhere near the front.
His belly does a little swoop at the thought, but he ignores it as he peels his jeans off. He’s not going to feel sorry for him, that’s for sure. He strips down, leaving his clothes in a pile on the floor and heads to the bathroom.
The cool spray of the shower is a welcome one, scrubbing himself down, he can’t remember the last time he himself had allowed himself to shower like this. Steven often was the one that did all the maintenance. He got ready for bed, he’d get a haircut (often few and far between but still) and Steven liked baths. Not that he had one at the apartment but Marc just preferred to savor the shower when he could.
It feels good to let the airplane grime slide off his skin. To feel the curls in his hair go loose from the water. He tips his head back, and wonders if this feeling right here: this easy contentment, was something normal people felt every day.
And he wonders why the universe deems it fair to him to only experience it in the slightest of fragments of his life.
He stays in the shower longer than necessary, until his stomach feels like it’s cannibalizing itself, and he steps out to towel himself off, only dressing himself in a pair of boxers, he doesn’t waste time getting dressed into something he knows he’ll just sweat right through again.
And when he returns to the main room, he considers the chips for half a second before he’s grabbing the whiskey bottle. He slides down to prop himself up at the foot of the bed, screwing the lid off, he brings it to his lips, and almost chokes when he’s startled by the voice that’s suddenly very clear cutting through the silence.
“So this is your plan, eh?”
Marc automatically looks to his left towards the mirror. Steven is standing there, looking a little awkward, hunched in on himself from where he stands in just a pair of boxers. He’s got his arms wrapped around his torso, self-conscious and nervous, he’s got the same scowl plastered across his face as before on the plane.
Marc doesn’t answer him, but simply tips his head back again to feel the warm liquid drizzle down his throat.
“You’re… you came all this way just to get pissed, yeah?” Steven continues, voice clipped, he stands a little straighter now. “I can’t believe you, Marc. I can’t bloody believe you.”
Marc smacks his lips together, tasting the sugary residue that lingers there, he swipes it away with a dart of his tongue.
“You don’t know me,” he hisses. “Just… go away.”
Steven sniffs. “Yeah, I think I can get a pretty clear picture of who you are, actually.”
Marc turns to face him again. He’s unfolded his arms from around himself, fists balled at his sides, Marc knows this look. Understands this facade so very well.
“You’re trying to be brave,” Marc tells him. He looks away to peer into his bottle. Brown liquid sloshes around, inviting him to delve into it, he doesn’t hesitate to take another swing. He smacks his lips together a second time. “You’re so scared right now. I know you are.”
He’s delayed in turning around to take note of Steven’s reaction. When he does, he finds him standing closer to the mirror more, like he might just attempt to break through it with his fist.
“You’re drunk and you’re insane. Take us home,” he demands. “Take us back right now!”
Marc can’t do that. He couldn’t even when there’s a slight part of him that wishes he could. He drains more whiskey from the bottle and lets it settle in his gut. In the back of his mind he can feel Steven persisting again, but he’s too far away to get any closer.
“You need help,” Steven states, his voice hard. “You’re a damn mess and… and I’m not letting you drag me down into whatever fuck up you’ve gotten yourself into!”
Marc snaps his head around to that.
He suppresses a burp that burns the back of his throat, and on wobbly legs, manages to stand. He takes another gulp for courage.
“You don’t think I don’t know that?” He says, voice low, slightly slurred now, he stalks towards the mirror.
Steven doesn’t back down though. Marc feels as if he should be a little impressed by that. His rising temper dampens that however as he narrows his eyes at the man in the reflection.
“You think… you think I want this, Steven?”
He watches Steven’s throat bob with uncertainty.
Marc feels his grip around the neck of the bottle grow tighter and tighter.
“Sometimes, it isn’t about what we want, Steven. It’s about what we have to do.”
He takes a heavy breath, brings the bottle to his lips again before he pauses to murmur,
“Not that you’d have any idea about that. You get what you want, don’t you?”
And despite his gravely, sunken tone, Steven manages to hear it still. His face arranged into one of hurt and fury, his body shakes with it.
“You… you really think I get what I want?”
He’s sounding a touch hysterical now, voice pitchy and mixed with the kind of angry laughing that is preceded with tears, Marc goes to step away, he really does. But Steven speaks again.
“You have ruined my life!” He says, voice raw, stripped back, Marc feels like he’s being flayed for pleasure here. Feels the keen sting of fresh air on his exposed body. “I can’t sleep, I can’t get a date, Iost my job because of you!” Steven yells, voice hoarse, cracking apart, bit by bit, it almost doesn’t sound like Steven’s voice anymore. Something haunted instead. “You’ve ruined everything and I hate you for it!”
Marc’s fist comes swinging down on the mirror so fast that it sends him backwards, his shocked expression matching the one in the mirror.
Steven has stumbled backwards, now perched on the bed, chest heaving, Marc’s senses come back to him as he feels the splintered glass embedded in his knuckles, his hisses, giving it a few flaps as blood sprinkles down onto the floor.
He meets Steven’s gaze. His uncertain one and his pulled into his own scowl.
“Yeah,” he croaks, gaze darting from Steven to the crack in the mirror, to Steven again. “I do ruin everything. So be assured that after this…you can have your perfect little life back, you won’t have to deal with me anymore, like I said already.”
Everything around him feels distorted, and for a short moment of panic clawing at his insides, Marc wonders if Steven might have been biding his time to regain control where Marc had grown sloppy, mouthful after mouthful.
But the world just sways with him, and Steven remains benched.
“I am a fuck up.” Marc hisses. He catches the bottle against his hip where he flails his arms around. He quickly numbs the pain with more alcohol down his throat. “It’s my mess so I’ll fix it.”
And without thinking, he just straight kicks the end table with the chips on it, buckling under his sudden weight, wood splinters and chips scattering across the floor.
His breath feels heavy and weighty in his chest, he drowns it out with more whiskey.
“I don’t need you to tell me what I already know, Steven!” He cries as he spins around in a heated fury, he grabs the bed sheets and throws them, once neatly draped over the mattress, now in a screwed up ball, it does little to ease his anger.
He looks towards Steven again, who’s still watching him with big, round eyes.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Marc spits. His words feel a little sticky around the edges. His head feels thick. “You can’t tell me what to do, okay? After I… After I gave you…” he stops himself, his words trail off like liquor down a sink.
He hiccups, winces at the sharp press of his chest. Takes another swig, teeth feeling furry.
Steven doesn’t stand up again, but he shifts a little in his seat.
“Gave me what?” He questions, voice small.
Marc refuses, shaking his head.
There’s fresh blood streaming down his forearm now, and he’s worked up a sweat again. He needs to have another shower but it doesn’t feel quite as enticing as the first one felt.
“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers, avoiding his gaze completely, he peers into the bottle again. Almost empty, a parallel to how he feels inside.
He turns to grab a sheet off the bed, pulling it upwards when,
“Wait…” Steven whispers. His voice is so thin, Marc knows he’s putting up a damn good fight to stay where he is right now. “I’m… I’m so cold in here. I don’t like it, Marc. Please.”
Marc’s heart lurches, clambering hope his throat in a desperate bid to escape him, he feels the booze slosh around his empty stomach. He flaps the sheet back out again, and gives Steven an almost sympathetic look.
“I’m sorry,” he tells him softly. “It’s for your own good.”
He slips the sheet over the mirror and like that, Steven’s presence is gone again.
And Marc is left, alone again, he stumbles back towards the edge of the bed, sliding down, teetering sideways before he pulls himself back up again, he’s a few more mouthfuls in when he hears the sound of the sheet slide away again. He isn't sure if it's the wind or something else forcing him to confront himself.
He gives Steven a hard stare, daring him almost.
He’s wrapped up in a sheet, folded in on himself. His own hand is bloody and bruised too, his image distorted from the cracks in the glass. He looks scared.
Neither of them say anything, and as Marc drains the rest of his whiskey, the buzz in his belly adding to the warmth that prickles over his skin, he stands, for he has a job to do.
A task to carry out before the puppet strings are well and truly cast aside for good. And as he stumbles towards the window, yanking back the curtains to reveal the outside world he’s buried himself away from, all he knows is that despite everything, it’s still a damn lonely world out there.