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Adam forgets about his dream he’d been engrossed in the second he jolts up in bed.
There’s a momentary who-am-I-and-where-am-I panic while he gives in to the knee-jerk reaction of rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and then a different kind of panic floods his system all at once: the smoke alarm is going off.
Without having to think twice about it, or really, at all about it, Adam is on his feet in a harsh rejection of the warmth still trapped between his blanket and his sheets. The air is brutally cold on his bare thighs, clad in only boxers and a t-shirt from some band that’s so faded he can’t even make a guess of what it used to be. He makes a panicked cry for Socks, his sweet cat barely stirring from her nap at the foot of his bed. She howls in protest at being hoisted suddenly up into Adam’s arms and rushed out of the bedroom while the shrieking beeps show no sign of letting up.
Fully prepped and ready in two-o’clock-A.M. mode, Adam breezes out into the hallway and frantically rounds the corner like skates on ice in his socks, the gliding only skidded to a halt by the gaping hole right in the big toe of it. But that doesn’t feel right– he’s fully on his ass and Socks has scurried out of his gasp and scampered away with a disgruntled meow, and now his forehead is aching like a bitch– Adam gazes upward dazedly at the stature of an adult man, broad and big-boned, now staring down at him like he’s some specimen burning under a microscope.
“What are you doing down there?” His visitor questions curiously, swatting at the smoke alarm with what appears to be a dishtowel. “You were already short enough.”
Adam blinks once, then twice, trying desperately now more than ever to clear the tired haze from behind his eyelids. He squints when the early breaking of the sun is suddenly blindingly illuminating his surroundings. So it’s totally not two in the morning. “Mark?” Adam grunts, shielding his eyes now that he’s finally waking up.
Mark only grumbles when he turns his focus back to the beeping on the ceiling. He swipes the rag in his hand across the air in front of it a couple more times until at last it quiets and leaves a ringing in Adam’s ears.
“Mark? Mark?” He continues, each time increasingly more incredulous. He’s clamoring onto his palms at the same time, weakly shooting out his feet to kick weakly at Mark’s shins. “Why are you here? How did you get in my house? You asshole, you scared the shit out of me!” Adam is grousing as best he can through a sleepily-pitched tirade on his spontaneous guest. “What time is it? Jesus.”
“Eight-thirty.” Mark huffs like it’s common knowledge.
Adam winces. Four hours too early. “ How did you get in here?” He repeats, sterner.
Mark tucks the dishtowel into a conveniently placed pocket on his apron– apron?– and extends his hand down to the less fortunate victim of their collision. “Key’s under the mat.”
“Oh. Shit,” Adam groans while near being effortlessly hoisted to his feet after accepting the rescue as an apology. “Why did you break into my house at eight-thirty in the morning? If you want the TV you’re gonna have to fight me for it.”
Mark clearly almost chuckles when Adam is fully on his legs and dusting himself off. It’d been a while since he remembered to vacuum. “Smell it,” Mark tells him with his arms crossed over whatever embarrassing moniker is printed on the front of his apron.
Adam raises his brow and does as suggested, exaggeratedly flaring his nostrils to take in whatever scent he’s supposed to be following. He stops about halfway through a deep inhale before freezing and widening his eyes to the size of golf balls. “Are you serious?”
“I, uh, burned some of it–”
Adam doesn’t stick around to hear the rest of it. He darts off the rest of the way to the kitchen with a grasp at Mark’s hand that doesn’t quite land. His feet are sliding even worse on the tile than they had on the carpet and he catches himself against the counter to keep from a trip to the ER and a set of stitches in his head. Ogling the stove like it’s the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, Adam whips his head around to Mark, calmly entering the kitchen behind him.
“You did this for me?”
Mark glances down as his feet, tongue darting across his lips nervously. “Wasn’t supposed to wake you up,” he mumbles. “Was going to bring it to you in bed.”
Lining the stove is a pan still sizzling with crisping bacon, next to it a plate covered with one of his popcorn bowls upside down atop it. There’s eggs, sunny-side up and over easy and scrambled; “I didn’t know how you like ‘em,” Mark says with a shrug when Adam tosses him a curious look. There’s full cartons of apple and orange juice on the counter in thin shopping bags like there’d been a quick trip to the store before the breaking and entering. Adam grins in a way that instantly breaks the silence surrounding them.
“Get over here, big guy,” he goads with a tired wave of his hand. Mark strides the distance between them in only a couple footsteps, taking Adam easily by the waist and lifting him so his much thinner legs can squeeze themselves around Mark’s hips. Adam loops his arms around Mark’s neck and smiles excitedly about the couple inches he now has on him. Now that he has a clearer view of the front of this silly apron, he can see it reads “KISS THE COOK” in big font right across Mark’s chest. Adam laughs, breathless, and obeys the command.
There’s a quiet humming that comes from one of them, maybe both, as their lips meet and Mark adjusts his grip around Adam, holding him so tight they couldn’t possibly get much closer. When they part mouths, Adam happily presses his forehead to Mark’s. “You fucking rock,” he whispers, entirely genuine.
Mark’s lips turn upward and Adam swears he can see the ghost of a pink twinge blossom high on his cheekbones before he’s being lowered back to his feet. The feeling of being completely swept off of them remains as he makes his way over to the stove as though he’s floating in midair. Surveying his choices, suddenly feeling hungry, Adam points curiously to the bowl turned upside-down over a plate. “What’s this?”
Like he’s been embarrassed, Mark’s cheeks go even rosier when confronted about the mystery element of Adam’s surprise meal. He distractedly picks up the spatula on the counter and absentmindedly prods at the bacon before deciding it’s had enough heat. “I said I burned some of it,” Mark mumbles, and just as he’s opening his mouth to keep Adam from putting his shortcomings on display, the bowl is lifted and the metaphorical cat is out of the proverbial bag.
At first Adam says nothing. He uncovers the platter and sets the bowl beside it, squinting and standing on his tip-toes to get different angles and try and ascertain what exactly he’s even looking at in the first place. Then, what happened here? Adam purses his lips, unable to keep his shoulders from shaking with a quiet laugh. “You steal all the hockey pucks from the NHL?”
Mark is plating bacon on top of a napkin to catch the excess grease when he shoots Adam a look somewhere between humored and offended. “They were supposed to be pancakes,” he laments. “There were chocolate chips and everything.”
Tossing his head back in laughter that he can no longer contain, Adam is seized by a fit of giggles and cackles that Mark does nothing but look amusedly on at. He hugs his arms close to his chest and, after calming himself down, wipes a tear dramatically from his eye. Then he gestures to what could have been a plate of pancakes. “How did you manage this?”
Mark kisses his teeth. “I’ve never made pancakes,” he admits.
The confession hangs thickly in the air following the abrupt conclusion of Adam’s laughing. Squinting again, he studies Mark like he’s suddenly a stranger. “What do you mean? You’re telling me you’re like fifty and you’ve never made pancakes?”
Scoffing, Mark rests a broad hand against his hip. “Not that old,” he addresses first, and then, “Angie always liked waffles better.”
“Unbelievable! It’s, like, the same exact thing! Making waffles is probably harder!” Adam is laughing again now, taking one of the thin disks of crisped batter between his fingers and watching it crumble in an instant. There’s humorous tears pricking the corner of his eyes again and he’s gesturing wildly with his hands to make up for being unable to speak without barking like a hyena.
“Alright, alright,” Mark grunts while taking the failed pancake from Adam and setting it back on the plate. “I get it. I’ll throw some frozen waffles in the toaster or something.”
Adam snatches back the black biscuit and shakes his head like he’s long since made this decision. “Oh, no. Nuh-uh. I’m totally gonna eat it.”
Mark inhales deeply. “Adam–”
“No!” Adam giggles, taking a few wide steps behind him to increase the distance between them. “You slaved over this all for me, the last thing I’m gonna do is just let you throw it all away. Just one bite, so I can tell you how good it is?”
Mark is pinching the bridge of his nose now and Adam is grinning like a circus monkey with some devious scheme up his sleeve. “If you get sick don’t come cryin’ to me,” Mark says, and Adam takes the thing between his teeth and crunches.
There’s an attempt to flatter Mark, there really is. Adam’s face is completely unreadable after the first bite and once he begins to chew it. It’s after his teeth grind together for a third time that something like regret wells up in his eyes and all at once he’s clamoring for the trash can to spit and hack out the charred pieces of his breakfast. Once he’s cleared his tongue and chased the ash out of his mouth with a big swig of the orange juice readily on the counter, he looks miserably at Mark and frowns. “Delicious,” he coughs.
Now it’s Mark’s turn to laugh, quietly as he does most things. He smooths his broad hands over the front of his kitschy apron before opening the freezer to pull out the aforementioned box of frozen waffles. “Maybe you can help me next time,” he suggests.
Adam beams as he starts gathering a plate of what he can; he takes a few pieces of bacon and a little bit of every type of egg that’s been prepared. He makes a little puddle of syrup on his plate for his incoming waffles but takes a bite of bacon slathered in it while it’s at his disposal. “Sure. I’m gonna do these dishes, by the way.”
“You’re not,” Mark tells him once the toaster is set. “Let me handle it. This is for you.”
He pouts. “Can I at least lick the spoon?” Adam asks, nudging his head over to the discarded bowl of pancake batter delicately placed in the sink.
Chuckling, Mark bridges their gap and takes Adam’s plate gently from him, setting it on the counter to allow him to pull his lover closer without risking spilling anything. “If you kiss the cook again,” he teases.
Happy as ever to oblige, Adam pushes up on his toes as Mark leans down.