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Marcoh has a habit.
It’s one that Scar isn’t sure that Marcoh himself is aware of - the man isn’t that good of an actor - one that happens at the end of every conversation and still manages to surprise him every time when it happens.
“Good morning,” Marcoh says, and presses something into Scar’s hand before he turns and disappears into an examination room.
This time, it’s a green Jolly Rancher.
Scar looks down at it, the brightly colored candy looking terribly out of place between his rough fingers, and wonders what the hell Marcoh’s playing at. It’s still warm from Marcoh’s pocket, where he keeps all the treats he hands out to the younger patients, and Scar thinks briefly that maybe it’s just an innocent habit after all.
He doesn’t know if he’s more annoyed or disappointed, and perhaps that’s the real crux of the problem.
The candy is sweet and sour all at once, and he feels his face pinching as he pushes it into his cheek. At lunch, Marcoh passes him a red candy and Scar takes it without thinking. Later, he berates himself for indulging the fool and eats the candy anyway. It never quite occurs to him that he doesn’t have to.
“Do you like the blue ones?” Marcoh asks him suddenly one day, and Scar nearly chokes on the damn thing. He coughs and glares across their kitchen counter, eyes watering. Their shared apartment is small, and Marcoh still manages to sneak around without Scar noticing. He’s getting soft, is what it is. Getting soft because of Marcoh and his candies and his quiet kindness that Scar never asked for.
“Blue what?”
“Blue raspberry.”
It’s utterly nonsensical until he glances down at the plastic wrapper in his hand. “There’s no such thing.”
“But you like them,” Marcoh says mildly. Scar squints at him and wonders why it even matters. “You always eat them first.”
“I eat all of them,” Scar answers, and drops the wrapper in the trash. He doesn’t meet Marcoh’s eyes. “If you mean to fatten me up, you’re doing well.”
Marcoh laughs at that, a surprised chuckle that’s more air than sound, and all Scar can taste is the syrupy sweetness of the candy on his tongue. “It’ll take more than a few Jolly Ranchers to do that.”
All the candies Scar receives after that are blue.
Two days later, the first child that sees his blue teeth laughs in delight, and he stares down at it in profound confusion until Marcoh coughs and points to a mirror.
The next day, he realizes that he’s never asked why Marcoh’s giving them to him in the first place.
He finds him during their lunch break in the storage room, back turned towards the door as he struggles to fit a box of gloves on the top shelf. Scar stands there for a moment and watches him; it’s rare that he’s the one being sneaky instead of the other way around.
Marcoh is not handsome. Of that, Scar is certain. They’re both too weathered and gruff for such things, even if there’s something… bright when Marcoh smiles. Something in the way he looks at his patients, the way he looks at animals and birds and the sunset. Something in the way he looks at Scar right before he reaches out and gives him a blue Jolly Rancher. It’s utterly infuriating, Scar thinks, in the way that an itch settles under his skin, a half-remembered memory lodging in the corner of his mind. Marcoh shouldn’t look at him like that.
“Let me,” he says, and before Marcoh can finish turning, Scar’s crossing the room and reaching up to steady the box. The room is cramped, and the way they’re standing brings his chest almost flush against Marcoh’s back, his chin brushing against the side of Marcoh’s head as he pushes the box into place.
“Oh,” is all Marcoh manages, and he doesn’t pull away, only tucks his head down to his chest and waits.
Scar can’t move, can’t think. Marcoh smells clean, like soap and flowers and faintly of cough syrup, the collar of his lab coat slightly rumpled, and from here, Scar can see where he’s starting to blush.
“You like to give me things.” He doesn’t mean for it to come across as accusing as it does, but Marcoh reddens up to his ears anyway.
“I didn’t think you minded,” Marcoh says, the flippancy of the words betrayed by a quiver in his voice. It’s a sign of weakness, something that should bother Scar, something that would’ve even enraged him years ago, but now all he does is lean closer and slide his hand down to pin Marcoh’s wrist against the shelf.
Marcoh makes an aborted sound at that, a soft breathy grunt at the back of his throat, and his fingers twitch, clinging helplessly to the edge of the shelf. “Scar.”
“I never asked for any of it,” Scar mutters, almost as an afterthought. His thumb presses harder against the underside of Marcoh’s wrist; he can feel Marcoh’s pulse pounding erratically in his grasp.
“I’m sorry,” Marcoh offers, his voice small, and something in Scar’s stomach lurches when he realizes that Marcoh thinks he’s angry.
“You…” he starts, and stops, and brings his other hand up to grip at Marcoh’s coat. He can feel the hard outline of candy in Marcoh’s pocket, and he prays aimlessly that he hasn’t read this all wrong from the start. “I’m…”
Marcoh shifts slightly, his head turning just enough so that he glances over his shoulder at Scar, and Christ, just looking at him makes Scar’s mouth go dry. He’s so close, they’re so close, he can feel every breath Marcoh takes against every inch of his body.
“Don’t apologize,” he finally says, and Marcoh’s eyes drop down to his mouth a split second before Scar drags him close and kisses him. The angle is awkward, and he bites his lip by accident, and Marcoh’s mouth tightens briefly beneath his in surprise; it’s a miscalculated move on so many levels, and Scar’s on the verge of pulling away when Marcoh twists around and grabs at his shirt.
“About damn time,” Marcoh says, and at some point, Scar must’ve let him go, because both of Marcoh’s hands are on his shoulders now, one reaching up to grasp at his short hair as Marcoh pulls him back down and kisses the living hell out of him.
Marcoh’s mouth is soft and hot and wet, and when he opens his mouth to dirty it up, licking and teasing at Scar’s lips until Scar lets him in, Scar’s chest aches so much that he’s breathless. He doesn’t know where to touch, so he tries to touch everything at once, his hands sliding down Marcoh’s back, grasping at his coat and tugging him closer.
“Sweet,” Marcoh mumbles, with just the barest hint of a laugh. It’s the laugh that cuts through the haze, and Scar blinks his eyes open dizzily. He doesn’t even remember closing them.
“What?”
Marcoh chuckles again, his breath warm against Scar’s cheek, and kisses the corner of his mouth, letting his lips linger. “You taste like blue,” he murmurs, and it’s something like a confession.
“Your fault,” Scar says, and kisses him again and again until Marcoh’s gasping and telling him that he’ll have to fire them both if they keep this up.
Scar watches him try to put himself together with some measure of satisfaction, watching the way Marcoh’s hands shake as he tries to straighten his tie and fails, his face flushed and his hair mussed and his lips—
He barks out a laugh and Marcoh blinks up at him, flustered. “What?”
Scar points at his own mouth and grins. His face feels stiff; he’s not used to doing it, but he thinks he gets the point across. “You’re blue.”
It takes Marcoh a second to get it, and Scar watches in fascination as he turns the color of a watermelon Jolly Rancher. Marcoh scrubs at his mouth with the back of his hand, and gives up when it proves ineffectual. “I’ll get you back,” he says halfheartedly, and Scar’s grin widens.
He thinks that blue may be becoming his favorite color.