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Marco’s sneakers made this faint, rubbery scuff against the concrete as he dragged his feet along the edge of his neighborhood. The streetlamps buzzed above him, throwing these weak circles of yellow light that didn’t quite reach the sidewalk. Past midnight, maybe closer to one, but he hadn’t checked his phone in a while. Time felt slippery lately, like the more he tried to hold it in place, the more it just slid out between his fingers.
He kept his hoodie pulled tight around him, hands jammed deep into the kangaroo pocket. The night air wasn’t cold, not really, but there was this sharpness in it that scraped along his skin. He didn’t mind. In a weird way, it made him feel more awake, more… real.
His mind, though, that was the part that wouldn’t shut up.
Why do I feel like this? Marco thought, staring down at the cracks in the pavement. It wasn’t like something had happened, not really. Sure, life had been stressful, school was annoying, home was suffocating sometimes, and his friends had all been caught up in their own stuff, but none of that explained why he felt like he was walking around with an anchor tied to his chest.
Every laugh, every smile, every moment that was supposed to feel good had just felt… muted. Off. Like he was there but not really there. And it made him tired.
So so tired.
He shook his head, trying to force the thoughts away.
The road curved around the block, leading him closer to the little park on the corner. That’s where he was headed.
He and Tom had agreed to meet up there tonight. No big plan, no huge reason. Just… hanging out. Marco hadn’t told Tom about the heaviness pressing on him, hadn’t told anyone, but part of him wondered if maybe Tom had noticed anyway. He usually did.
Marco huffed a quiet laugh at that thought. The idea of a literal demon being better at reading him than his own parents or best friend was… ironic. Or depressing. He wasn’t sure which.
The park finally came into view, the faint outline of the swings and the jungle gym rising against the dark sky. The streetlight at the entrance flickered, buzzing like it might give out any second. Marco slipped inside, the metal gate creaking softly as it swung shut behind him.
The place was empty. Not surprising, considering the hour. The grass was damp with dew, glistening faintly under the moonlight. The air smelled faintly of earth and something metallic—probably from the rusty monkey bars that had been there since Marco was a kid.
He made his way over to the far corner, near the bench half-hidden by an old oak tree. That was their spot. He and Tom had claimed it months ago, after one too many late-night hangouts had ended with them just collapsing there and talking until the sky turned gray.
Marco sat down heavily, leaning back against the bench. For a moment he just closed his eyes, breathing in the quiet. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, crickets chirping, leaves rustling, the distant hum of a car engine somewhere blocks away.
He dug into his hoodie pocket and pulled out the small joint he’d rolled earlier. He hesitated, rolling it between his fingers.
It wasn’t something he did often, maybe once or twice when things got too loud in his head, but tonight felt like one of those nights.
Lighting it up, Marco took a slow drag. The smoke burned a little going down, but the warmth spread through his chest almost instantly, loosening something tight inside him. He exhaled, watching the thin trail of smoke curl up into the night air before disappearing.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath, voice low. “Now I’m the cliché teenager smoking in the park at one in the morning.”
But honestly? He didn’t care. He just wanted the edge to soften, even a little.
Marco leaned back further, resting his head against the top of the bench. The stars peeked through the branches of the oak tree above, faint but steady. He took another hit, letting the smoke linger before releasing it slowly.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Marco pulled it out, squinting at the screen. A message from Tom.
Tom: Almost there. Don’t get kidnapped before I show up.
Marco snorted quietly, shaking his head. He typed back one-handed.
Marco: No promises. The swings look pretty sketchy tonight.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket, lips twitching into the faintest smile.
For the next couple minutes, Marco just sat there, smoking and staring at nothing. His thoughts still circled, heavy and confusing, but the sharpness of them dulled a little. Enough that he could breathe without feeling like the air was too thick.
Marco exhaled another slow stream of smoke, watching it twist through the glow of the streetlamp. He leaned his head back against the bench, letting the damp night air settle over him. The joint was half-gone, and so was the coil in his chest.
He was halfway through another drag when a ripple of red-orange light cut across the shadows in front of him. The air shimmered, bending like heat off asphalt, and then, like always, it split open. A jagged, glowing portal tore into the night, humming low and sharp.
Marco sat up straighter, though the sight wasn’t exactly surprising anymore. If anything, it felt almost comforting.
Tom stepped through the tear in space, his sneakers landing silently on the grass. His hair glowed faintly in the dark, embers flickering at the tips like little stars. His jacket was half-zipped, his hood up, but Marco still caught the curl of his smile.
“You’re early,” Marco said, voice flat but teasing.
Tom’s smirk widened. “You’re high.”
Marco rolled his eyes. “Observant.” He lifted the joint a little in mock-salute. “Want some, braniac?”
Tom lightly tilted his head, “Hmm. Should I enable my human boyfriend’s bad habits?”
“Too late, I’m a lost cause” Marco muttered, but he was grinning now. He patted the space on the bench beside him. “Sit down before you melt the sidewalk.”
Tom snorted but obeyed, dropping into the seat with a little bounce. The portal sealed behind him with a soft crackle, leaving only the sound of the crickets again.
“Rough night?” Tom asked, glancing sideways. His tone was casual, but Marco caught the undercurrent in it, the careful kind of casual Tom used when he was actually worried.
Marco shrugged, dragging the smoke deep before letting it out in a long sigh. “Rough week. Month. Whatever.”
“Want to talk about it?” Tom’s voice was soft, not pushy.
“Not really.” Marco handed him the joint instead. “Thought we could just… not think for a while.”
Tom took it without hesitation, inhaled smoothly, then coughed into his fist. “Ugh. Still hate how it burns.”
Marco chuckled. “Nah you love it.”
“I love you,” Tom corrected, passing it back, “and you’re insufferable when you’re stressed, so… yeah, I guess I do love it.”
That earned a laugh out of Marco, small, but real. He leaned against Tom’s shoulder, warm even through the hoodie fabric. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re stoned,” Tom shot back, grinning.
They fell into an easy rhythm after that. Passing the joint, trading little comments about the night, the flickering streetlight, the squeak of the swings in the wind, the way Marco’s hoodie string kept smacking him in the face when he leaned forward too fast. It wasn’t deep, it wasn’t heavy. Just… comfortable.
Eventually, the joint burned down to a stub, and Marco pinched it out against the metal arm of the bench. His fingers smelled like smoke and ash, but he didn’t care. Tom had one arm slung casually across the backrest now, his thumb brushing absently against Marco’s shoulder.
“You look tired,” Tom murmured.
“I feel tired.”
“Not just tonight tired,” Tom pressed, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “Like… deep tired.”
Marco stared at his hands. “Yeah. I know.”
Tom didn’t push further. He just shifted, pulling Marco gently against his chest. Marco went willingly, burying his face into the curve of Tom’s hoodie. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and something sharper, like sulfur, but familiar.
They stayed like that for a long while, saying nothing. Just breathing together, the world shrinking down to the steady rhythm of Tom’s chest rising and falling.
Then Tom tilted his head down, brushing a kiss against Marco’s hair. “You know I’m here, right?”
Marco’s throat tightened. He nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
Another stretch of silence, then Marco lifted his head just enough to meet Tom’s eyes. “Kiss me?”
Tom’s smile softened. “Always.”
Their lips met, slow, unhurried. Marco tasted smoke and warmth, felt the faint sting of heat radiating off Tom’s skin. Tom’s hand cupped the back of his neck, gentle but steady, keeping him anchored. Marco melted into it, letting the kiss drown out the heaviness that had been gnawing at him all week.
It wasn’t the first time they’d kissed in this park, but somehow it always felt new. Like the world kept spinning wrong, and then Tom kissed him, and suddenly it clicked back into place.
When they finally broke apart, Marco’s chest felt lighter. Not fixed, but lighter.
Tom grinned with a raised brow. “Better?”
“Shut up,” Marco muttered, but he couldn’t stop smiling.
They spent the next few hours tangled up on the bench, talking about everything and nothing, Tom’s latest fight with one of his underworld cousins, Marco’s terrible attempt at cooking dinner last week, a random memory about the time Tom set the school vending machine on fire because it ate his dollar.
Between stories, they kissed. Sometimes quick pecks, sometimes lazy make-outs that left Marco dizzy. The night stretched on around them, slow and quiet, until the horizon began to gray.
By then, Marco’s eyelids were heavy, and his phone buzzed with the faintest vibration of his morning alarm. He groaned into Tom’s chest. “We should go.”
Tom sighed but nodded. “Yeah. I’ll walk you home.”
They stood, stretching stiff limbs. Marco tucked his hands into his hoodie again, and Tom laced their fingers together without asking. Marco glanced around the empty park, then allowed it. His chest warmed at the small gesture.
The walk back to his house was quiet. The streets were empty, the world still half-asleep. Tom kicked at pebbles on the sidewalk, sending little sparks when his shoe scuffed too hard. Marco watched, amused.
When they reached the corner near his street, Marco slowed. His stomach knotted, the familiar nervousness of stepping back into the other world. The one where no one knew. Where he didn’t have the words yet, didn’t know how to explain.
Tom stopped with him, reading his hesitation instantly. He squeezed Marco’s hand once, then let go. “I get it,” he said softly. No pressure. No judgment.
Marco’s chest ached with gratitude. “Thanks.”
They lingered by the gate to his yard. The sky was streaking pink now, birds just starting to chirp. Marco bit his lip, then leaned up quickly to press a swift kiss to Tom’s mouth.
“Good night,” he whispered, pulling back before he could second-guess it.
Tom’s eyes softened, glowing brighter for a second. “Night, Marco.”
Marco slipped inside the gate, glancing back once. Tom stood there watching him, hands shoved into his pockets, smile tugging at his lips. Marco’s chest ached with something he couldn’t quite name, half warmth, half dread. He gave the smallest wave before turning away and letting the gate click softly behind him.
The porch light was still on. That was the first bad sign.
Marco winced, pulling his hood tighter around his face as he tiptoed up the steps. The front door creaked when he opened it, and the warm glow from the hallway lamps hit him like a spotlight. He froze, halfway inside.
“Marco?” His mom’s usually soft voice came sharp from the living room.
He grimaced. “Uh… yeah, Mom?”
She appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowing as soon as she saw him. Behind her, his dad sat stiffly on the couch, shoulders hunched, mouth pressed thin.
“Where were you?” his mom demanded.
Marco shut the door gently, avoiding her gaze. “Out.”
“Out?” Her tone cracked with disbelief. “Marco, it’s almost sunrise. You disappear in the middle of the night without saying a word, and all you can tell me is ‘out’?”
He swallowed, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pocket. “I just… needed some air.”
“Air,” his dad repeated flatly. His eyes flicked toward the hoodie, then to Marco’s face, searching.
For a moment, nobody spoke. The silence stretched long enough for Marco to shift uncomfortably. And then,his mom’s nose twitched. She blinked, leaned slightly closer, and her expression darkened.
“Marco.” Her voice was low, warning. “What is that smell?”
Marco froze.
Her eyes widened, horror flashing. “Is that—? Oh my god. It is. It’s weed.”
“Mom—” Marco started, but she cut him off.
“You’ve been smoking?” Her voice rose, sharp and slicing through the quiet house.
From the couch, his dad muttered, “Oh, Marco…” He rubbed his forehead, sigh heavy.
“It’s not—it wasn’t—” Marco fumbled, heat rushing to his face. His hands itched for something to do, but all he could do was clench them deeper into the hoodie pocket. “I just—look, it was a couple hits. That’s it. I wasn’t—”
His mom shook her head, pressing her lips tight. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”
“You don’t have to—”
“No.” She cut him off again, voice trembling now with something sharper, fear, maybe. “Not tonight. I’m too upset. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Marco’s chest tightened. “Mom—”
“Go to bed, Marco.”
Her tone left no room for argument.
He turned to his dad, eyes pleading, but all he got was a tired shake of the head. “She’s right. Just… go upstairs. We’ll talk later.”
Marco’s throat felt like it was closing. He nodded stiffly and shuffled toward the stairs, every step heavier than the last.
As he reached the landing, their voices floated up behind him, low but not quiet enough.
“He’s never done this before,” his mom whispered, voice breaking. “Disappearing in the middle of the night? Smelling like, like that? What if something happened to him?”
“He came back,” his dad murmured. “That’s what matters. We’ll figure it out.”
“No,” she insisted. “Something’s wrong. He’s… he’s not himself lately. I can see it. He’s shutting us out.”
Marco clenched his jaw, frozen on the stairs.
“We’re supposed to protect him,” his mom said softly, like the words were falling apart in her mouth. “But how can we if we don’t even know what’s going on?”
His dad didn’t answer right away. But, finally, “We’ll try again tomorrow. He’s not ready tonight.”
The words hit Marco harder than he expected. Not ready. Like he was broken, like he was a problem waiting to be solved.
He forced his legs to move, dragging himself up the rest of the stairs. The hallway stretched too long, the carpet muffling every step until he reached his room.
He eased the door shut behind him, leaning back against it with a shaky exhale. The faint sound of Star’s snoring drifted through the wall, soft, rhythmic, oblivious.
Marco’s chest ached. He stripped off his hoodie, tossing it carelessly onto the chair, and climbed into bed without changing. The sheets smelled faintly like laundry detergent and dust, grounding but suffocating all at once.
He buried his face into the pillow, pressing his eyes shut. He tried to block out the echo of his parents’ voices, the disappointment heavy in every word. Tried to block out the lingering taste of smoke on his tongue, the phantom heat of Tom’s lips still against his own.
Above all, he tried not to think about the knot twisting tighter and tighter in his chest.
The ceiling fan whirred. The wall hummed with Star’s steady breathing. And Marco lay there, heart heavy, wide awake in the quiet.