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Mork kept shifting in the bed, and it wasn't helping, not when Day was already trying his damn best not to listen to what was happening on the other side of the wall. The sounds were one thing, but combine that with the smell of Mork all around him, surrounding him, enclosing him — and the knowledge that Mork was right there. A simple hand reach away.
The knowledge that he could, theoretically, practically, reach for him, was worst of all. Mork was so close, and Mork liked him, so it should be easy, to reach out for him.
And then what?
He imagined touching Mork's shoulder. Maybe his back, though Day was pretty sure the other was not turned away from him. He wasn't looking, at least — Day would've felt that. But Mork didn't like to turn away from him, and the thought cut into him like a knife.
What would Mork do? Startle? Laugh? He might see the gesture coming. Unless he was already asleep. But his breathing was too quick, too shallow.
Day wanted to feel it, too.
His mind kept going back — to that hunger, that desperation he felt from Mork in that kiss, and how alive Day felt then. Scared, confused in part, but also alive; like the fog had cleared and he could see, just not with his eyes. There was something freeing in that.
The more time passed, the less confusion he felt. The fear turned to excitement, the trepidation to something fluttering and breath-catching. The steps were new, but Mork was with him on each and every one.
And sometimes, when he caught him by surprise, like on the rooftop—
Day caught himself licking his lips and wondered if, maybe, Mork saw him do it. Probably not, he must have his eyes closed, and it must be dark anyway, but if he did — if he did. If he saw that, what would he think? What would he do?
His hand inched towards Mork. It would be so easy. It would be so—
Mork's arm, warm, steady, familiar. It didn't jerk when Day's fingers grazed the fine hairs and then the skin. (Had Mork seen the touch coming?) When they hesitantly drew up towards his elbow. When the touch turned into more of a caress.
Day was sure Mork was looking at him now, though he didn't feel it the way he sometimes did. But he must have been. Day couldn't stop stroking his arm, and Mork wasn't saying anything, but his breathing got a little faster, a little louder.
Day wanted.
He wasn't sure if Mork allowing him simply to touch was a blessing or a torture, because now he wanted to study every millimeter of his skin, and at the same time — he wanted the grounding hold of his hands. He wanted Mork to reciprocate.
He allowed himself to turn towards Mork before travelling his hand down to the other's palm. The lines and shapes were familiar, but there was a stillness to Mork he couldn't bear.
Still, breaking the quiet was out of the question.
Day licked his lips again.
Mork had to be watching.
Silence. For a whole minute, Day's hand trembled on Mork's palm.
"Are you teasing me, Nong Day?" Mork finally said. It wasn't hostile, but not mocking either. Day thought he sensed a hint of uncertainty.
“No,” he blurted out.
He didn't think he could. Not teasing, but perhaps... encouraging him. Beckoning him to reciprocate, to initiate, fill in the gaps of Day's stilted movements.
Mork's exhale was loud, tense, and something in Day tightened in response, preparing for a rejection. It was too much — too fast — he wasn't welcome. Nothing new. He should have been ready for this — he was ready, he just... for a moment, he thought...
Then. Fingers, moving against his palm. Drawing lines along the tender skin on its inside, nails scratching just barely, leaving Day wanting, aching for Mork's hands — to hold stronger, to grasp harder, to leave indents, to press into him so Day could never doubt it again.
He bit on his upper lip, and Mork's hand froze before returning to touch with renewed intent. And now he knew: Mork was looking.
Just that one fact was enough for his breath to quicken. Mork was caressing his knuckles, intertwining their fingers, the rougher skin almost pleasant against his, and Day's heart was in his throat, just like before, when he wasn't sure what it all meant, when he tried his best to ignore Mork's heavy gaze, when he could only lie in his bed alone, and wonder.
But he wasn't alone anymore.
"P’Mork," he breathed out. Suddenly, it felt imperative that Mork knew that he wanted him too; just how much Day wanted. He moved in decisively, before he could think it over, and felt Mork jerk in response.
"N’Day." The word flew over his lips — Mork's face was so close, but he wanted it closer. Maybe he should have asked, said something, but... he kept thinking of the way Mork first conveyed his feelings. Couldn't he too be brave like this? Desperate like this?
Without thinking, he brought their intertwined hands up — and froze, not knowing what to do next. His arm was shaking slightly. Shit.
He tried to say something, but the words seemed stuck in his throat; and even so close, he couldn’t decipher Mork’s expression, not in the dark, not like this. But Mork could see him, Mork could—
Then he felt it. A new touch, something soft and... wet on his knuckles. Trembling, reverent.
He gasped when he realized what it was: a kiss. Mork was kissing his hand, light and timid at first, and then — longer. Heavier. His gaze undoubtedly fixated on Day's flabbergasted expression.
Day needed — wanted — was desperate to know what Mork's own face was doing, so he drew his other, shaking, hand from under the pillow and reached out to see Mork's face. The first thing he felt was his eyebrows, low, but not furrowed; then his cheekbone. The skin was only a little scratchy, and Day vividly remembered feeling it against his own cheeks.
Mork wasn't moving his mouth anymore, letting Day explore at his own time, and it made Day feel strangely uneven. Like each of them took turns with each other, and they could never meet in the middle.
"Phi," he called, finding his voice hoarse.
"Day," Mork answered, warm, he always sounded so warm — and because Day's hands were so close, and because Day let it happen, and because the warmth was what drew him to Mork again and again — it was so easy to let Mork's mouth close over his fingertips.
It felt like all his nerve endings, all of his thoughts flew into that one point; except for a part of Day that was distinctly aware of Mork still watching him closely, studying his every reaction. His face felt hot, from what Mork was doing, from how he was looking, always, infallibly, looking. There were times when Day thought his instincts must be wrong, that Mork couldn't be looking at him as much as he felt him do it.
Now he knew better.
His expression must have been off, because Mork drew away and asked, "Are you… is this okay?"
And Day had to squeeze out, "Yes," because he didn't know how to handle Mork saying or asking anything else.
Mork's mouth widened into a familiar smirk under Day's fingers, and before he could say anything terribly embarrassing, Day hastily covered it with his other hand.
Which. Was a very direct way of telling him to continue, even if Day hadn't intended it as such; but, of course, that is what Mork did. Day almost jerked away when he felt warm-wet-hot on his finger, but Mork held his wrist steadfast, and all that was left was to endure.
It was horribly intimate. Day wasn't sure what he envisioned when he first reached out for Mork in the dark, but he hadn't thought of… this. He wanted to ask if Mork had, but couldn't find his voice. The mouth touching, kissing, consuming his fingers was warm and welcoming, hot and desperate, soft and tender — and worst of all, it was Mork's mouth, familiar by now, though not enough. Day could hear his own breathing, so, so loud.
One drawn-out nipping kiss had him jerking, his toes curling, and he must have moved his legs in the motion, because a second later another ankle was hooking over his, knees knocking together, legs tangling, and Day wanted to burn from how intimate it was, how wonderful, how terrifying.
He thought he might die if he didn't get to kiss Mork soon.
Every time Mork had touched him, there was this tenderness Day couldn't help but try to run away from. Because it was too easily confused with pity. Because it was just Mork's job as a caretaker. Because he had to be imagining things. Because Mork couldn't be this tender.
Every time Day challenged him, and every time Mork showed him even more of himself — his warm, charming, tender self. Every time Day felt himself slipping even deeper, questioning himself even further, wishing the touches would stop, wishing they never stopped. Wondering if he was getting addicted, dependent, if he needed to stop, if it would turn into something ugly—
"Nong Day. Day. Day," Mork's voice broke him out of his increasingly anxious thoughts, and Day clutched his hand without even thinking. "Hey."
"Hey," Day said weakly.
"Are you okay? I'm sorry. We don't— We don't have to do anything—"
"No, I— I do. Want. So much," he mumbled. "With you," he added.
Mork made a weak, punched-out sound, and god, what wouldn't Day give to see his face.
He placed a hand on Mork's cheek, finding it with surprising ease. His index finger drew a line over Mork's brow (slightly raised) and rested on his forehead (creased), while his thumb reached the corner of Mork's mouth (parted).
"Phi," he breathed out. Their feet pressed against each other again and again, as if performing some intimate dance.
Day felt Mork's eyes flutter shut, and he knew it as a silent invitation it was.
He leaned in.
It was scary — initiating a kiss, his nerves almost running away from him, but the warm skin of Mork’s face under his hand, and the other hand grasped tightly in a familiar grip, were the grounding force he needed. Mork’s lips were soft, even when the rest of him didn’t seem to be. (But Day knew better, knew firsthand just how soft Mork could be.) They moved slowly, hesitantly against Day’s, completely unlike the last time.
It was scary, how he found himself falling deeper and deeper with each hastily drawn breath, with each touch and motion. Mork was clearly trying to stay as still as possible, but his free hand quickly settled in Day’s hair, and their handhold was gradually turning into something… different, as if Mork was limiting himself to just exploring that one part of Day’s body, squeezing and releasing and intertwining their fingers all the while. Maybe he didn’t even realise he was doing it, but Day felt every caress as a brand, even more acutely than the soft, hesitant kisses.
Slow, so as not to spook Mork — or, maybe, himself — Day drew lines from his cheek to his jaw, his neck, shoulder — that one felt sturdy and familiar when he gripped it, and Mork seemed to move slightly closer. Day took it as a good sign and lowered his hand until it rested just below the breast.
Mork's hand clenched in Day's hair for a moment before he let go.
Day didn't want him to let go.
He exhaled shakily into the kiss and felt Mork trembling, as if in response. He suddenly realised that he had no idea how much experience Mork has; how long it had been, how much, if Mork had ever been with men— they haven't talked about anything like that. But it could be, that in some ways, this was new for Mork, too, and he was also nervous.
Day could hardly imagine it. But Mork had been more hesitant now, ever since he had revealed his feelings, even as he claimed to act exactly as before.
His hand didn't press Day closer, and his mouth didn't command that Day's open beneath it; it was on Day to go there, and he wasn't sure how. Just as he braced himself to deepen the kiss, Mork broke it with an embarrassing sound.
"Day, I— we've got the marathon tomorrow." His whisper was overwhelmingly loud in the quiet of the room, now that their neighbours seemed to stop their… activities.
"I don't care, phi."
"Ohooo," Mork's voice was full of amusement, and Day thought he knew what his face would be doing at the moment. Or, at least… wanted to know.
He wanted to know as much of Mork as possible, and it was… scary. Exciting. Overwhelming.
He returned his hand to Mork's face, and felt those lips widening in a smile. He could learn to recognise those smiles — in his blurry vision, or even from Mork's voice, Mork's movements. The thought was easier to accept than it would have been some months before.
"What are you thinking?" Mork asked gently, fingers petting lightly over Day's hair.
Day swallowed. He didn't think he was ready to put it into words, the enormity of what he was feeling, the impact Mork had made on his life. The way the idea of the marathon has somehow morphed from the clear goal to just… the process of running with Mork. Something they could achieve together.
"I don't want you to go," he whispered, and heard Mork suck in a breath. It sounded so selfish. Did he even have the right to ask that of Mork? Didn’t Mork have his own life somewhere, that didn’t involve taking care of Day?
"I'm not going anywhere," Mork assured him. So reliable, so certain. How could Mork be certain?
“You can’t know that.” Day regretted the words the moment they came out — so petulant, so childish; Mork did not deserve to hear that. He’ll leave you, he’ll leave you, don’t put yourself in his hands, he’ll leave you, chanted in his head. Day blinked furiously, as if he could chase it away just like that.
His eyes caught a blurry motion, and then his hand was suddenly trapped between two.
“Day.”
Day swallowed, apologies buried under his tongue.
“Do you know why I kept coming back to you? Why I… keep coming back?”
He meant — in the beginning; but also later, with August. Why he woke up early just to indulge Day. Why he followed Day into his house, and into his room, and his life, even when Day was hardly welcoming him. Why he tried, why he persisted, why he kept at it despite everything.
“Because you needed money?” Day asked in a small voice.
“Because for the first time in a while,” Mork took a breath; Day didn’t feel like he was breathing at all, “it felt like someone was seeing me.”
Day snorted, incredulous, but Mork wasn’t laughing — indeed, he didn’t seem to be moving at all.
“But I cannot see you.”
Mork’s rough hand cupped his face, and for a moment Day imagined himself to be a fish, tenderly scooped up by Mork and rescued from its dirty tank.
“You’re the only one who really tried,” Mork whispered, and somehow, Day understood. His fingers found their way to Mork’s face again, mapping out the familiar features, catching the smile that was slowly blooming there.
He needed to find words. He needed Mork to know.
"You too, phi," he mumbled, feeling as if he might start crying any moment now. "You too."
Mork's laugh sounded wet, and Day reached out to steal it from his lips impulsively.
The kiss felt easier, this time, their mouths finding the right angle faster. Mork's fingers reached further, fitting perfectly around his earlobe, and the rough skin made him shiver inadvertently. Yes, yesyesyes, Day thought, his body singing from the touches, pressing closer to Mork's, this is what he wanted from the beginning, this is what he was needing, just this, his P'Mork all around him, matching him with equal hunger, reaching deep into Day's mouth to drag out such embarrassing sounds, their kisses turning wet and filthy and so, so good and—
"Day," Mork panted out when they separated. "We shouldn't, we have to—"
Fuck. Right, the marathon. They needed to sleep for that, and they should probably… talk, right.
"Right," Day agreed, making no attempt to move away.
"I don't wanna… rush," Mork whispered.
“Right,” Day repeated, but before he could move away and drown away in mortification, Mork pressed a kiss to his hand again.
“I want to see you finish the marathon tomorrow,” Mork said, warm breath washing over Day’s knuckles. “No, I wanna finish it with you. And then,” his voice took a teasing tone, “and then kiss you after the finish line.”
“Phi!”
“Is that okay, N’Day?”
Day didn’t need to touch Mork face to know he was smiling. They both were.
“Yes.”