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It’s two hours in when the mug jumps from Marc’s hand and shatters all over the floor, jolting Steven into the body. He barely has time to utter the beginnings of a "Bloody hell, Marc" before Marc is pushing back against him with a curt "I've got this."
It's as much a dismissal as it is an assurance. Steven would take either if Marc's method of "getting this" didn't involve kneeling and using his bare hands as a broom and dustpan for the broken ceramic shards.
"You absolute—"
He's cut off again, this time just by a half-formed grunt. Marc doesn't say anything as he gathers the larger shards into a paper towel. Steven swears he can almost hear Marc's voice in his head, something like Don't worry about it.
Steven absolutely will worry about it, and he's got half a mind to tell Marc what he thinks when—
BANG!
Marc's flinch jerks their entire body, throwing Steven from his thoughts. Their hand momentarily clenches around a piece of ceramic. Steven winces before realizing he doesn't feel any pain—not yet, at least. He's almost hopeful that the sharp edge didn't break any skin, but he can see a tell-tale red line beginning to form at the base of their fingers. He gets the sense that the only reason he's not feeling anything is because Marc is stopping him from feeling it. A shuddering breath hurries from their mouth in time with the fizz and crackle outside their window.
The memories aren't Steven's, but the feeling is.
When he's able to coax Marc's jaw into loosening, Steven gently tries again. "Marc. Let me clean up."
Marc shakes his head, silent and stubborn.
"At least let me see our hand."
The body stills at that, and Steven can almost feel Marc's racing thoughts like a car engine rumbling beneath the hood. Marc's hold on their body slips, and Steven manages to slide in before Marc can tighten his grip again. He's startled by how fast their heart is beating, and he takes a few deep breaths to slow their pulse.
BANG-BANG-BANG!
Steven jumps slightly at the first noise, but it's nothing compared to the white noise that flares in the back of his mind that signals Marc's agitation. Steven frowns as he leaves the kitchen, lifting his bleeding hand. "You all right, mate?"
Their pulse is quickening again. Steven inhales and exhales slowly, loud and deliberate, as he goes to the bathroom. "I'm turning on some warm water, Marc. Gotta get our hand clean, after all."
There's a lower booming noise over their head, along with a couple of screeching whistles that end in ear-splitting CRACK!s. Steven flinches, blinking at himself in confusion. He's never really had a problem with fireworks before, though it's certainly his first time hearing them this close, at this time of night. Americans, he supposes, stupid Americans and their stupid fetish for explosives.
Screeeeeeeee-BANG! BANG!
One look in the mirror reminds him that there's a stupid American with an aversion for explosives lingering behind his eyes. Steven clears his throat as he gingerly begins washing their hands. "Do you have a favorite scent of soap, Marc? Cos if I'm going to be honest with you, I'm not the biggest fan of whatever scent this is supposed to be. It's some mix of bad hotel bar soap and expired cologne, don't you think? Well, if you're into that cologne thing, then maybe. But maybe something floral might be nice. Some lavender. How about that?"
The white noise is a little quieter. Steven's fingers are trembling slightly, so he pauses to hold his hands together. "Fireworks giving you a hard time, huh."
He's not the one who squeezes his fingers.
Steven clicks his tongue sympathetically as he shuts off the water and dries their hands. The cut from earlier is still bleeding, so he dabs the towel around the wound to avoid getting blood on it. Keeping their bleeding hand elevated, he opens their medicine cabinet with his elbow. "I don't really get it, you know? How fireworks are supposed to be the whole celebratory thing. I mean, I suppose it makes some sort of sense, and they are nice to watch on the telly. Huh, now that I think about it, we don't have an independence day in Britain, do we. One of those side effects of being the one people were getting independent from, innit?"
There's a warm stirring in the back of his throat. Any onlooker might think Steven pathetic for cracking a smile at his own joke. He shakes his head when another series of whistles screams overhead, talking over the explosions as they come. "As I was saying, I was pretty sure it was illegal to be setting those things off within city limits anyway. And there's a whole show downtown, I thought. Makes you wonder why—" he grunts as he attempts to cut a straight piece of gauze with only one hand, "—these imbeciles insist on playing war in their backyards. This have anything to do with the bloody second amendment that everyone's so obsessed with?"
Steven’s not the one who rolls his eyes, either, but he is the one whose lips quirk up in a half-smile.
”I’ll take it from here.” Steven glances up at his reflection when Marc’s accent slides from their throat. Steven has to admit, there had been some ease of conversation when they were talking through mirrors. But even then, despite them having had pretty separate lives, there had been the sense that something was missing— an echo of himself he hadn’t known existed. The one drawback is that they can’t exactly talk over one another anymore, but since going their separate way from Khonshu, there hadn’t been much need for that anyway.
Marc’s shoulders are still stiff as he wraps their hand, but his movements are much steadier than before, far calmer. One never quite forgets how to properly dress and bandage a wound, even if one has spent the past few years with accelerated healing. Maybe it’s weird or depressing to think about, but Marc has always felt in his element when he’s patching himself up. Maybe it’s because he at least has one thing he’s pretty decent at, even if he screws everything else up. Maybe it’s the way the gauze and tape stick out against his skin, like proof someone else had been there. Maybe it’s the feeling that no matter what anyone else did to his body, he would find a way to take care of it. Especially since someone else lives here, too.
When the next wave of fireworks careens through the night, Marc grips the edge of the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s never really liked looking at himself, but every movement is a reminder that he is alive and more or less whole. With his uninjured hand, he takes two fingers and presses them against the pulse point at his throat. A phantom pain passes through his chest with every explosion, and he can feel the spike in his heartbeat like it’s adrenaline.
Steven hovers questioningly in his tingling fingertips, in the weight of his eyelids, in the edge of his laboring ribs.
“I’m not really good at loud noises,” Marc says quietly. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a complete lie, either. “You can probably guess why.”
He thinks it’s a fist he’s making with his good hand, but his thumb drags itself far too gently over his knuckles for vitriol. The explosions outside are duller now, a steady ka-bang, ka-bang like a soldier’s heartbeat. He thinks he hears a siren, too, but it could just be his mind playing tricks on him. It wouldn’t be the first time.
”Getting shot to death,” Marc continues, flexing his injured hand to check his range of motion, “probably didn’t make it much better.”
There’s a brief fidget in his uninjured fingers, as though Steven is saying You didn’t just say that out loud.
Marc shrugs, wincing when one of the firecrackers goes off, much louder than the others. “I fucking hate this country. Should have just stayed British.”
A pit opens in his lungs—one that lets all the air in, rather than sucking it out. Marc backtracks immediately, realizing two seconds too late who he’s just said that in front of. Steven is practically wheezing in the hollows of their bones as Marc flusteredly jabs a finger at his reflection. “Tell anyone I said that and I will throw us off the roof.”
Who would I tell? Steven seems to say, but he simmers down all the same, fading back to a numbing warmness in Marc’s fingertips.
Marc sighs. “Sorry about the mess earlier, buddy. I… I don’t really know what happened.”
It’s not really the truth, but it’s not really a lie, either. If he’s being honest with himself, his memory is already fuzzing and fogging. He’s not sure what triggered the first moment of panic, the first too-quick exhale, the first rush in his blood that sent his mind spiraling, spiraling, spiraling down staircases and caves and bombs in the desert. It’s a little ridiculous, he thinks, because he doesn’t have a problem with guns or dynamite or explosions, not really, not when he digs down deep and thinks about it. But for some reason—
Boom!
Marc shakes his head to roll off the involuntary flinch. He really only has himself to blame, if he thinks about it. After all, he’s the one who had convinced Steven to fly out to New York for a couple of weeks, to patch strained relations with some of his old contacts and tie up some loose ends before getting a clean slate to start over in London with. He made the mistake of forgetting that July 4th fell right in the middle of their trip. In Marc’s defense, he’d been abroad for nearly the past ten years. Ten years without obnoxious, inconsiderate fucks celebrating their freedom to throw all the neighborhood animals into a frenzy.
Maybe a cup of tea will do him some good. And a warm blanket, and maybe watching something nice with David Attenborough.
The suggestion is certainly not Marc’s, but he’ll take it. Even if he has no idea who David Attenborough is. Come to think of it, he seemed to be getting some kind of drink when he cut open his hand in the first place.
Fuck, he still needs to clean up the kitchen, doesn’t he?
More out of habit than necessity, Marc presses himself against the wall in the hallway and checks around the corners before heading into the kitchen again. The bombs outside seem to have quieted, at least for now. Maybe he hadn’t been imagining that siren. His cut hand throbs under the bandage, and he wiggles his fingers to make sure the wrapping will hold. Of course it does. Muscle memory and all that.
Marc’s not sure where the nearest broom and dustpan are, so he settles for gathering up the ceramic shards with paper towels instead. When the larger pieces are in the trash can, he wets a few more paper towels to pick up the smaller bits and the dust. There’s something oddly familiar about the routine, but Marc shakes it off to déjà vu. Even if it’s not the first time he’s cleaned up a broken mug, he doesn’t want to think about the context of whatever scenario that would have put him in. Even if they are just memories.
Marc, by nature, isn’t much of a talker, even when he has someone to talk to. It’s a lot easier when someone else does the talking or conversation guiding, so he can just follow or do what he’s told and he doesn’t have to overthink it. He doesn’t naturally talk to himself the way that Steven does. Hell, he’s not really that good at initiating conversations with Steven besides some variation of “Still there?” And that’s bound to get old at some point.
Marc’s never really understood the phrase “train of thought”. Train, singular, that is. His mind tends to go in at least three different directions simultaneously, even without Steven or anyone else contributing. He can’t really seem to make himself stop thinking, as much as he wishes he could. It’s times like this that he almost misses the suit, because at least with the mask and hood on, his vision had been clear and his mindset singular. And even when unbidden memories had leapt at him from dark streets and sudden shouts and lucky hits, he’d had power greater than himself to stare them down, to fight back and pretend like it didn’t matter.
But things are different now. It’s been a while.
When the floor looks clean again, Marc gingerly runs his knuckles over the hardwood, just to double-check. All clear. And just to be extra safe, he goes over the area again with a wet paper towel. Twice. Thrice. Four times. The rest of the kitchen seems to fade away, and with it, the incessant booming and banging and crackle-pop-fizzing outside. It’s just Marc, the sink, and this spot on the floor that seems clean but maybe isn’t clean enough, maybe there’s still a hidden splinter somewhere, maybe if he’s not careful he’ll have missed a spot and someone might step on it and injure her foot and then she’ll be angry and then—
“Marc. Marc.” It takes him a few seconds to realize he’s not the one talking, and that Steven has been saying his name for some time now. His hands come to a faltering stop as Steven takes control of them, lifts them to his knees, and has them sitting on the floor with their back against the refrigerator. “Something’s wrong.”
Marc wants to laugh. He doesn’t. His thoughts are racing at a hundred miles an hour, because if they slow down for even a moment, one of them might stick.
”Marc.” Steven’s voice is firmer this time, though not unkind. “What was that?”
”Doesn’t matter.”
”It does.”
Marc breathes loudly, because it’s not like he can escape a conversation with someone who literally lives in his brain. But fuck if this isn’t a lot harder than that time they died and went to the Duat, where he hadn’t needed words for Steven to see the truth. He has no idea where to begin, and Steven doesn’t push. For now.
Outside, the fireworks boom and hum in their dull roars. Marc leans his head back against the refrigerator and shuts his eyes. He knows what’s wrong with him, why he’s reacting the way he is. It’s just one mug, just one floor and one memory and one lifetime away from it all. It should be inconsequential, but it isn’t, and he’s teetering at the edge of going absolutely batshit insane over nothing. God help him, he knows exactly what’s going on, and he wants to yell or kick or stab something, just to chase this feeling away.
Marc Spector is having an anxiety attack.
”Oh, mate.” Steven’s voice is unbearably soft.
Marc doesn’t recognize his own voice when he says, “Do you know what day it was when our brother died?”
Steven shakes their head.
”July fourth,” Marc whispers, “nineteen-ninety-six.”
Heat bursts in his chest as Steven floods him with the mental equivalent of a tight, tight hug. Marc’s breath hitches in his throat because he knows he doesn’t deserve Steven’s understanding, much less his kindness.
Their dad had been in charge of the grill. Burgers and hot dogs and chips and the kind of food that was saved for holidays. Their mom had promised to take them all downtown to see the city parade and fireworks later that night, because Randall was five and Marc was nine, and they were finally both old enough to stay up late for one night. And the forecast had been cloudy, but there had been nothing about rain. So they were supposed to have dinner together, and then they were going to go see the parade, and then they were going to watch the fireworks, and then they were supposed to come home.
But instead Marc had seen the fireworks through a hospital window that night.
And every burst of color had brought him to tears.
And it had been the first time he’d seen his mother explode, too.
Almost thirty years now, and it’s still not a holiday for him. Marc’s swapped stories with other combat veterans every now and then, when he could hide behind his year as a Marine and exchange tips on earplugs and weighted blankets and various strains of medications. And when he’d been outside the States, it had been easy to ignore the calendar and pretend he didn’t see the date just for a day. And it had been easier to shut everything down, to tie stones to those memories and sink them, because he’d had Steven to take care of—Steven, who didn’t know a thing about Randall or their family or any of the things that Marc had done.
A whistle and a bang.
”Coming here was one hell of a mistake,” Marc breathes.
”You couldn’t have known,” Steven counters.
”I should have.”
”Why?”
”’Cause I’m better than this.”
”…”
”…”
”…”
”…”
”Give me the body.”
”You don’t have to—”
“You’re exhausted.”
The worst thing about it is, Steven’s right. Beneath the adrenaline rush and constant hammering of his heart, Marc wants nothing more than to just lie down and sleep until the next two days are over and he can wake up to a perfectly normal date that actually means nothing to him.
But it wouldn’t be fair to leave Steven with the body when Marc’s the one responsible for their injury.
”You can give me the body,” Steven says, “or I’ll take it.”
It’s an ultimatum, not a threat.
Marc sighs and drifts off, letting Steven take over. Steven blinks a few times, hardly surprised to feel that the corners of his eyes are damp. There’s an ache in his lungs when he settles into their body. The thing about grief, he’s learned, is that it’s a pain just like anything else. There’s no getting over it, not really—there’s just getting through it.
Marc’s the one who taught him that, in not so many words.
”I’m sorry about our brother,” Steven says out loud. In the same way that it’s easier for Marc to sink into silence and communicate with him through half-formed thoughts and images, it’s easier for Steven to say what he’s thinking. “It wasn’t your fault. None of it was. And thank you for telling me. It was horrible you had to go through all that by yourself, but you’re not by yourself now. You are, for better or worse, stuck with me, you got that?”
Marc doesn’t say anything back, but Steven would know if he’d gone away completely.
”I think those rascals have finally run out of firecrackers,” he notes, picking them up off the floor. “But either way, I reckon you and I are both in need of a cuppa.”
Steven finds his phone first, where it’s lying next to Marc’s by the charger on the counter. He opens YouTube and searches for Blue Planet. He taps the first video in the results, something with a thumbnail of an orca. “This is David Attenborough, by the way.”
He turns up the volume, letting the video play out as he starts boiling water to make tea. His hand still aches. His chest still burns. But Steven chooses to interpret it as a good sign, that Marc is sharing some of that pain instead of keeping it all to himself. He murmurs soft commentary of his own over the video narration as he gets a new mug from the cupboard. As much as he would like to have something decaf, it seems they’ve only got a box of Earl Grey. But that’s fine.
When the kettle hisses, Steven turns the stove off and pours half a mugful of Earl Grey. The video’s autoplayed to the next clip, something about seahorses now. Steven moves them to the couch, where he lies on his side and props up his phone on one of the cushions. It’s true they don’t have mirrors to see each other in anymore, but he imagines it’s the lines of Marc’s face he sees in the dark edge around his phone screen.
”Pine.”
”What?” Steven’s brow furrows at the abrupt and unexpected word. It takes him a moment to put two and two together, but a grin cracks across his face when he figures out what Marc’s just told him. “Oh.”
Somehow, it makes sense.
And when Marc finally drifts into unconsciousness, Steven writes himself a note to buy pine-scented soap when they get back home.