Work Text:
“You should move in with me.“
Scar nearly drops the box of syringes he’s been cataloging, and he makes an excuse of fumbling it to avoid eye contact. "What?”
Marcoh remains completely unabashed, despite having just delivered a considerable bombshell with his usual calm. “You’re a good worker,” he says. “And I’ve got the room.” He looks up at Scar, who immediately stares down at the box in his hands. He’s not altogether certain if he should be saying anything, and so he settles for silence. He’s beginning to wonder if he settles for silence too often, especially when it comes to Marcoh.
“Just think about it,” Marcoh says, after a lingering pause, and to Scar’s utter shock, he hears his own voice next.
“Yeah, sure,” Scar mutters, and he does.
……………..
Marcoh’s apartment is small and haphazard and rather understated, much like the man himself. However, as Scar takes a second look around, he admits that there’s an underlying sense of comfort to it all. The armchairs in the living space are mismatched, but soft and plush, the one to the right of the radiator showing significantly more wear than the other, lumpy colorful throws tossed over the backs that causes Scar to wonder if Marcoh knitted them himself. He counts at least four separate tea sets in various locations, the trays perched precariously on odd bits of furniture, balanced between footstools and stacks of books, a chipped teapot pushed absently against the kitchen door as a doorstop.
"Sorry for the mess,” Marcoh says breathlessly, appearing suddenly at his elbow. He insisted on helping with the moving, despite Scar’s awkward protests, and now clutches the second of Scar’s two boxes of possessions to his chest as he shuffles around Scar in the narrow hallway. “I’m afraid that it’s a bit of a lost cause.”
“I don’t mind.” Scar feels too large and imposing here, like a bull in a china shop, and not for the first time since Marcoh’s offer, he thinks that he might’ve taken on more than he can handle. “It’s… nice.”
And there it is again— Marcoh’s face softens in that almost childish relief that never fails to catch Scar completely off guard, and he smiles up at Scar earnestly. “I’m glad.”
The air suddenly feels too hot, and Scar grunts and looks away until he can breathe again.
His new room is across the hall from Marcoh’s and shows evidence of having once been a prospective guest room before being overtaken by the surrounding chaos. There are even more books here, the shelves lining the walls crammed full to the point of overflowing to the floor, a soft blue rug softening Scar’s footsteps as he crosses the room to the double bed.
The bed fits the room oddly, like an afterthought, and as he stares down at it distractedly, it suddenly strikes him that Marcoh must have added it recently. For God’s sake, the tag is still on the gleaming bedframe, despite the colorful bedspread and every other attempt Marcoh must have made to make it appear lived-in.
“Is it all right?” Marcoh asks anxiously from the doorway, and any forming questions dissolve in Scar’s mouth when he sees the pinch of worry between the man’s eyebrows
“You got me a bed,” Scar wants to say. “What the hell?” or even a“Why?” also seem appropriate.
“I like it,” he says instead. The words taste odd, the shapes unfamiliar on his tongue, and he manages a half smile that cracks his face like aged stone. "Thank you.
…………
They settle naturally into an unspoken routine; Scar wakes well before Marcoh in the early hours before dawn, more out of habit than anything else, and he spends the time jogging up and down the building stairs, watching the cement steps turn from gray to orange as the sun rises through the dirty windows. When he returns, breathless and sweaty, there’s a tray of toast on the kitchen table and a mug of coffee, and if he makes it back sooner than expected, he’s greeted by the sight of Marcoh in a pale blue apron in the kitchen.
They eat to the tinny soundtrack of the morning radio, Marcoh reaching out occasionally to fiddle idly with the dials before returning to his toast. He eats in little neat bites, three to a row, and Scar always finds himself mesmerized by how Marcoh’s plate remains spotless despite the mess of crumbs on his own.
Marcoh offers him a ride in his dusty green Civic, which Scar declines after a measuring glance and takes his bike instead. There’s an Organ Donor sticker on the side of the seat, a Christmas present from Marcoh that showcases a rare morbid sense of humor. Scar thumbs at it out of habit before pulling his helmet on, and watches the flash of Marcoh’s hand out the window as his car coughs and splutters down the street.
The evening goes much the same way. Once the clinic is closed, the streetlights painting orange swaths across the cracked pavement, Scar makes a pretense of double checking the locks to keep an eye on Marcoh as he crosses the lot to his car. As much as Marcoh likes to think the best of the inner city, Scar knows better.
Dinner’s usually a quiet affair. Sometimes, after spilling a bewilderingly large selection of menus in front of Scar, Marcoh orders take-out and they eat in the living room, one of Marcoh’s old records spinning in the background to mask the clamor from the traffic below. Marcoh talks about nothing and everything, soft chatter that Scar grunts along to occasionally. He wonders if he’s a bad companion, but Marcoh never seems to mind, and neither of them are strangers to silence.
The bathroom proves to be a larger challenge than he foresaw. The size is agreeable enough; Scar doesn’t have to stoop to shower and that’s enough for him, but it’s the only one in the apartment, and that means shared time with Marcoh.
“I’m sorry,” Marcoh says, flustered, the first time that Scar accidentally opens the door to him exiting the shower. “I have a habit of leaving doors unlocked.”
Scar’s first thought is to begin discreetly check the windows and front door from now on. His second is that he’s still staring and Marcoh is slowly turning pink from head to toe. He snaps his eyes to the tiled floor, mumbles something in the way of a vague apology, and closes the door firmly.
It takes eighty sit-ups to compartmentalize away the sight of Marcoh half out of the tub, dripping wet and one hand reaching helplessly for a towel that’s just a few inches too far away. Scar’s very careful to start knocking after that
…………..
It doesn’t take long for him to start learning more about Marcoh than he ever thought he would, from how many spoonfuls of honey he takes with his tea to the way he somehow manages to navigate the creaky floorboards with complete silence. Scar has never owned a cat, though he likes them well enough, but he suspects the experience is similar.
Marcoh doesn’t own a television; he reads instead, and even though Scar’s never fancied himself much of a scholar, he soon finds that there isn’t much else to do when they’re not at work. So on the third day of his residence, he starts from the bottom left corner of the shelves in his room and begins working his way up, until a week later when he notices a new set of weights in the corner of his room. Marcoh never says a word about it, not even when Scar stares at him silently from across the table at dinner and his ears turn red, and so Scar spares them both the mortification of asking.
In that way, he supposes they’re both getting used to each other.
Two weeks later, the temperature plummets and Scar makes the mistake of sneezing in front of Marcoh.
Marcoh looks up at him from the living room, where he’s warming his socked feet by the radiator, and raises his eyebrows.
“I’m not sick,” Scar says automatically, pressing a hand to the lower half of his face.
“You just—”
“I’m not,” he growls, and Marcoh looks at him dubiously, but doesn’t argue. And Scar thinks that’s the end of it, until the next morning when he tries to sit up and feels like complete and utter shit, and he can’t even bother to be annoyed when Marcoh tells him “I told you so.”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Scar croaks, when Marcoh enters his room with a laden tray.
“May can handle it,” Marcoh tells him, and sits down beside his bed. “What would I do without my favorite assistant, anyway?”
“Be competent, I suppose.”
Marcoh laughs at that. “I’m better with you beside me,” he says, and he slowly turns red under Scar’s scrutiny. “I brought you soup.”
He props Scar up with a couple of pillows and fusses over him until Scar grunts and waves him away, pulling the tray onto his lap. The soup’s good– he can barely taste it through his congestion, but he knows it is.
Marcoh’s hand against his forehead startles him, and he leans into it without thinking, closing his eyes at the cool touch. “You’ve still got a fever,” Marcoh says quietly, his fingers pushing through Scar’s hair.
“Mm.” Scar exhales, twitches a bit in surprise when Marcoh’s thumb traces over his eyebrow, where smooth skin ends and scar tissue begins.
In the end, he falls asleep like that, Marcoh’s hand petting away his sharp edges.
…………..
A month later, Scar kisses him, and his whole world rearranges.
It’s a moment of madness, a wild impulse. It’s everything he’s ever wanted without knowing the words for it.
They learn that about each other, too. How the other likes to be kissed, to be touched. How Scar is always the first to duck away, flushed and skittish, but slides quietly behind Marcoh while he cooks and puts an arm around his waist. How Marcoh will blush prettily at the smallest of gestures, a touch to his wrist, a kiss to his ear, but takes Scar apart with his bare hands and the smile of a priest.
“I never meant for this to happen, you know,” he says one night, curled around Scar on the living room floor. They didn’t make it to the bed that night, surrounded instead by the throw that once covered the back of the couch and a pile of sweaters Scar took great pleasure in peeling off Marcoh. “When I asked you to move in.”
Scar’s still catching his breath, his cheek pressed against the floor and his skin cooling as his heart rate finally begins to slow. He grumbles and rolls into Marcoh’s arms, flattening him with his weight. “You regretting it now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Marcoh’s hand slides up his arm, squeezes the back of his neck affectionately before threading through his hair. “I only regret not kissing you sooner.”
Scar grunts, absurdly pleased. They lie there until even the radiator can’t stave off the chill, and Marcoh nudges at Scar until he groans and pushes up to his knees, gathering the throw around him. “Let’s go to bed,” Marcoh tells him with a smile, and Scar goes.