Work Text:
⏯
Face to face, Marek's hands find Tyler's shoulders, steadying him. He's too close. Tyler can feel Marek's breath, warm and quick. Can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the slight sheen on his lips where he's just licked them, the spot he missed shaving under his jaw.
The fog swirls around them, cuts them off from everything else. It's too much input all at once; Tyler's drowning in the strange artificial sweetness of the thickened air. The flannel of Marek's shirt is worn-in, soft under Tyler's palms. He catches the faint smell of sweat masked by the Axe body spray Marek insists makes him irresistible to girls.
Marek's thumb brushes along Tyler's collarbone through his hoodie.
This is what he thinks about late at night. This exact thing. Marek mere inches away looking at him like—
Like what, exactly? Tyler doesn't know. He can't quite read the expression on Marek's face.
⏮
"You doing anything tomorrow?" Tyler asks.
They're on cleanup duty after the show, folding the ring canvas the way they always do: grab opposite corners, meet in the middle, trade the weight. The vinyl is heavy and patched with peeling duct tape.
Marek glances up. "Just work. Why?"
"My mom wants me to go get some pumpkins. For decorations." Tyler shrugs a shoulder and grimaces at the twinge in his arm, the result of a bad landing off a back body drop. "D'you wanna come?"
"Pumpkins?" Marek echoes.
"Yeah, like... for jack-o'-lanterns or whatever."
Marek straightens up. "Your mom's making you go pumpkin picking?"
"She's not making me do anything," Tyler says, defensive. "I offered."
"Right."
"I did."
"I believe you." Marek's grin is lopsided, familiar, the one that makes it hard for Tyler to tell if he's teasing or just pleased. "Sure, I'll come. I get off work at four. I'll swing by your place after."
"Cool." Tyler focuses on the next fold, trying to ignore the way his pulse has picked up. "There's this farm in Moline. They've got a corn maze and a petting zoo too, if you're into that."
“A petting zoo? What are we, six?”
Tyler bristles. “I was just saying what they have. Shit.”
“Hey, relax.” Marek holds up a hand. “I'm just messin’ with you, don't get your panties in a bunch.”
"Seriously, man, cut it out," Tyler mutters.
Marek pauses, then: "Yeah, alright. My bad." He sounds like he means it. "It seems fun, actually. Haven't been to one of those in forever."
⏩︎
Outside, it's brisk, a welcome reprieve from the stuffiness of the gym. A single amber streetlight glows above the parking lot.
"You need a ride?" Marek asks, shouldering his gear bag.
Tyler almost says yes, even as he fishes his keys from his jeans pocket, if only to stretch the conversation a while longer. "Nah, I've got my mom's car."
"Alright." Marek heads over to his sedan, tosses his bag into the passenger seat.
Tyler looks without looking. He's ridden shotgun a thousand times. He knows the rip in the upholstery, the sticky seatbelt button, the ghost of some girl’s perfume that shows up when the heat turns on. He tries not to picture manicured hands on Marek’s knee at a stoplight. Fails. Looks away.
“See you tomorrow, then. For pumpkins.”
“Yeah,” Tyler says. “For pumpkins.”
⏩︎
“This one’s good,” Tyler says, crouching to test the stem.
The field sprawls in uneven rows. Fat orange bodies nosed into dry dirt, vines like green cables outstretched across the landscape. The setting sun warms the back of his hoodie. A tractor idles somewhere past the kettle corn stand.
Marek is a distraction at best, a saboteur at worst. He keeps wandering off and bringing back a variety of misshapen gourds to display to Tyler: warty freaks and flattened, squat things like sea urchins. He cradles a lopsided mutant like a found puppy.
“It’s got character,” he insists.
“It looks like someone sat on it.”
“Your face looks like someone sat on it.”
“Wow. Good one.” Tyler rolls his eyes.
“I’m just saying, it’s got personality.” Marek waves it for emphasis. “Your boring-ass perfect pumpkins are gonna put people to sleep.”
“My mom specifically said—”
“Your mom would love this one. It’s rustic.”
“Rustic?” Tyler stands up, brushing dirt off his knees. “Dude, it’s shaped like a dick.”
Marek holds it up, examining it from different angles. The evening light glows orange through the translucent spots where the skin’s worn thin. “I don’t see it.”
“You’re literally holding it by the balls.”
Marek looks down at where his hand cups the bottom of the gourd, then at Tyler, then back at the pumpkin. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“Put it back.”
“I’m buying it.”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am. It’s going on my porch.” Marek tucks it under his arm like a football. “My mom’s gonna think it’s hilarious.”
“Your mom’s gonna think you’re a pervert.”
“She already thinks that.” Marek gestures to the three large pumpkins Tyler’s collected at his feet, exactly to his mom’s specifications. “Come on, I’ll help you carry these boring ones. Then we’ll get Dick Pumpkin his own bag.”
They carry them to the car, knuckles going numb from the weight by the time they set them gently in the trunk. Tyler rubs his hands on his hoodie.
“Dude.” Marek points across the parking lot.
Tyler follows the line of his arm to a hand-painted sign propped near the edge of the cornfield: HAUNTED CORN MAZE, it proclaims, the red letters running in a poor facsimile of blood.
“Oh, hell yeah,” Marek says. “You didn't tell me it was a haunted maze. We’re so doing this.”
“We came here to buy pumpkins. Mission accomplished.”
“C'mon, Tyler, don’t be such a fag.”
Tyler starts to object, but Marek’s already moving. He hooks a finger in Tyler’s sleeve and tows him across the gravel toward a plywood ticket booth draped in a leaf-print tablecloth. Marek digs out a wad of crumpled singles and smooths them flat against the counter.
A bored teenager in a zombie costume takes their money and slides a plastic flashlight to them. The beam flickers when Tyler tests the switch.
The corn swallows sound as soon as they step between the stalks. The dirt path has been packed flat, the edges blurred where kids have cheated the turns. From somewhere deep in the maze, a chainsaw starts and a cluster of voices shriek, then laugh.
⏮
They dump their pillowcases across the living room carpet last Halloween. Candy bars scatter, crushed Smarties roll out, two plastic pairs of vampire fangs shake out from the bottom like prizes from a cereal box.
Marek snatches one, then the other. He turns the first over in his hand then looks at Tyler with a smirk.
“Don't even think about it,” Tyler says.
“What? I'm not doing anything.” Marek scoots closer. “C'mon, just try ‘em on.”
“Do it yourself.”
“You first.” Marek reaches out and pinches Tyler’s chin, tilting his face up. His fingers press into Tyler's jaw. “Open your mouth.”
“Dude—”
The second Tyler starts to protest, Marek jams the fangs in. Plastic scrapes against his gums, catches on his front teeth. Tyler makes an indignant noise and tries to spit them out, but Marek clamps his hand over Tyler's mouth.
"Keep 'em in, dude, come on."
Tyler glares at him. Spit pools immediately at the corners of his mouth, climbs the edges of the fake teeth. He already lisps, but now it's doubled.
“Thcuthe me,” he says around the plastic, and drool slides down his chin. He attempts a menacing hiss.
“Terrifying,” Marek says, deadpan, before cracking up. He almost topples backward into the KitKats.
“Say ‘blood’,” he orders.
"Blahhh,” Tyler tries. Saliva shoots out at the sound, a fine mist that catches Marek on his cheek.
“Aw, bro!” Marek jerks back, scrubbing at his face. “That's fuckin’ gross. Wipe your mouth, Dracula.”
Tyler uses his tongue to pop the fangs out and lets them drop into his lap. He drags his sleeve across his chin, then shoves Marek's shoulder.
“You told me to say it, asshole.”
“Yeah, not spit all over me.” But Marek's grinning again, holding up his pillowcase like a banker’s bag. “Hey, trade you all my Whoppers for your Twix.”
“Not a chance.” Tyler shakes his head.
Marek sighs theatrically and tosses three Whoppers into the Tootsie Roll graveyard.
⏭
They walk through the maze and Tyler jolts at every scare—a guy in a hockey mask, a woman in a bloody wedding dress. Each time, Marek laughs and Tyler play-punches his arm, muttering insults that don't land because he's already bracing for the next one.
The path twists back on itself. Dead ends force them to retrace their steps. They pass the same plastic skeleton three times and Marek swears under his breath, spinning the flashlight beam across identical walls of corn.
"So," Marek says, "you nervous about homecoming?"
"What?" Tyler stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the question. "Why would I be nervous?"
"I don't know. Big dance, asking a girl..."
"I'm not going."
Marek stops walking and turns to look at him. The flashlight beam catches Tyler head-on, making him squint.
"What do you mean you're not going?"
Tyler shrugs. "I just... I don't really want to."
"Dude, it's homecoming. Everyone goes."
"Not everyone."
"Name one person who's not going."
"Me."
"Besides you, smartass."
Tyler thinks for a second. "Mike Johnson. He said dances are for tools."
"Mike Johnson's a fucking loser, of course he said that." Marek starts walking again, shaking his head. "You should go. Ask someone. Live a little."
"Like who?"
"I don't know. Jessica V.’s been staring at you in chemistry all semester."
"Jessica V. stares at everyone. She's got a lazy eye."
"She does not have a lazy eye."
"She absolutely has a lazy eye. It's like looking at a Picasso."
"You don't even know who Picasso is."
"I know what a Picasso looks like. All fucked up and sideways."
"That's not—" Marek stops walking. "Wait, which eye?"
"I don't know, man. Whichever one's not looking at you."
"You're making this up."
"I'm not! Ask anyone."
"You just don't want to admit she's into you."
A ghost lurches out from behind a corn stalk, moaning and rattling its plastic chains. Tyler flinches less this time. He's getting used to it, he thinks, or maybe he's just too distracted by the conversation.
"What about you?" Tyler asks. "You asking someone?"
"Yeah. I haven't decided who yet."
"Let me guess. Brittany Edwards?"
Marek shrugs. "Brittany Edwards is hot."
"She's so dumb, dude. She got, like, a twenty-five on her English paper."
"So what? I'm not gonna marry her. I just want to try and cop a feel during the slow dances."
Tyler makes a face. "Gross."
"It's not gross. She's got great tits."
"Sure, I guess."
"Whatever, Tyler. When's the last time you even talked to a girl?"
"I talk to girls all the time."
"I mean talk to them. Like, flirt. Not 'hey, can I borrow a pencil?'"
Tyler doesn't answer. The truth is, he doesn't really think about girls that way. Not the way Marek does, anyway. He notices them, sure. He thinks Jessica V. has pretty eyes, for example, lazy or not. But when he tries to imagine asking her to homecoming, nothing happens. His brain won’t make the leap.
They backtrack from a dead end and try the other path at the last fork. This one leads to a wider area with fake tombstones stuck into the ground and a fog machine pumping out thick white smoke. The flashlight beam barely penetrates it.
"I can't see shit," Marek says.
"Good thing you brought me. I've got great night vision."
"Yeah? What do you see?"
“Uhhh…” Tyler squints into the fog. "Nothing."
“Helpful, thanks.”
A dark shape moves in the mist, low to the ground. Tyler gasps and grabs Marek's arm.
"What?" Marek whispers.
"There's something—"
A werewolf springs from behind a foam headstone, howling. The flashlight wobbles in Marek’s grip; fog curls around their shoes as they both stumble back a step.
⏯
The novelty of kissing Marek has yet to wear off, and Tyler doubts it ever will.
Wait. No. That's not right.
Tyler doesn't kiss Marek. Tyler doesn't kiss anyone. Not with any regularity, anyway. What Tyler does is think about kissing Marek. A lot. Like, way more than he should and way more than makes sense for someone who is allegedly interested in girls.
It's an urge he stifles regularly. Something that began as simple curiosity has morphed into an incessant drone in the back of his mind. It's persistent, like the whine of a mosquito that never lands, always somewhere just out of reach.
Like right now, standing in the fog with Marek's hands on him, he can't think about anything else.
Tyler can feel Marek's heart pounding. Can see the line of his jaw, the way a bead of sweat has tracked down from his temple. Marek's studying him and Tyler wonders what he sees there. If it's obvious. If Marek can tell that Tyler's thinking about things he shouldn't.
"Dude, you're not gonna pass out, are you?"
"No, I'm—" Tyler croaks, clears his throat. "I'm fine."
"You sure? 'Cause you look like you're about to cry."
"Fuck off." Tyler shoves him, harder than he means to, but Marek doesn't budge.
He's laughing, hands still gripping Tyler's shoulders, and Tyler can't figure out why everything feels different suddenly, like someone flipped a switch and now he can see things he wasn't supposed to see.
He's been thinking about kissing Marek for weeks, months. But this is the first time he's realized that's not—
Huh. That's not normal, is it?
Normal friends don't think about kissing each other. Normal friends don't notice the way someone's jeans fit or get hypnotized by the gold flecks in their eyes.
He'd assumed it was a passing fascination, something that would go away eventually. But being here, with Marek right in front of him, he wonders if Marek might think about it too.
No. Stop. Marek doesn't. Marek talks about girls' tits. Marek's going to ask Brittany Edwards to homecoming. Tyler's reading into nothing, projecting his own weird gay-panic bullshit—oh god, is he gay?—onto a moment that should be just something funny between friends.
"You guys need help?" The werewolf drops the scary act. "Are you hurt?"
Marek's hands slip away and Tyler immediately misses the weight of them. Which is another thing that's not normal, another piece of evidence he can't ignore anymore.
"We're fine," Marek says. "Just got turned around."
They separate and find the path again, walking side-by-side with a careful six inches of space between them. Neither of them talks. Tyler keeps his eyes on the ground, counting his steps, trying not to think about flannel under his fingers or how badly he hadn’t wanted Marek to let go.
The exit spits them out in the gravel parking lot. The sudden open sky looks wrong after the corn closed in above them for so long. Tyler blinks against it.
“That was…” Marek starts.
“Stupid,” Tyler says.
He means the maze. He means himself.
⏮
“Spread your fingers,” Marek says after the show in April. They're sitting in the hayloft of the SCW barn.
Tyler’s wrist is already hot and puffy along the bone. He flexes and it stings. Marek digs around in the blue bin the promoter calls a “med kit”, though it doesn’t contain much in the way of supplies—athletic tape, prewrap, popsicle sticks, rusted scissors that don’t quite close.
Marek rests Tyler’s palm against his thigh to keep it still and finds the end of the tape. The roll squeaks as it unspools. The first loop sits low around the wrist, snug without biting into his skin; he crosses a figure-eight on the back of Tyler’s hand, moves underneath, crosses again. Each pass gets smoothed with the flat of Marek’s thumb in short strokes, pressing air out, making the layers lie down.
Marek bites the tape to rip it. He pats the edge, traces along the seam, then presses along the radius like he's mapping where the ache has taken root.
Tyler looks anywhere else. The clamp light’s cone leaves the corners of the loft dark; a spider web shakes when the door opens on the far side and lets in a strip of light. Somebody laughs outside, voices dopplering past the open threshold, bass thumping from a nearby car.
“Open, close,” Marek says, and Tyler does. Fans his fingers and settles them.
“Better?” Marek asks.
“Yeah, thanks.” Tyler pulls his hand back to cradle it against his chest. The movement jolts the joint and he feels it shoot up his arm, a quick hot spark. Marek flicks at his knuckles.
“Don’t baby it,” he admonishes. “You'll be fine.”
⏭
"Did you boys have fun at the farm?"
Tyler's mom is waiting on the front porch when they pull into the driveway, arms crossed against the October chill. Tyler climbs out of the passenger seat and grabs two of the pumpkins from the trunk while Marek takes the third.
"Yeah," Tyler says. "It was good."
She follows them up the front steps, scanning Tyler's face in the porch light. "You look a little pale, sweetie. Everything alright?"
"I'm fine."
"Just tired," Marek adds, setting his pumpkin down by the door. "Long day."
"Well, come on inside. I saved you both plates from dinner."
"Actually, I should probably head home," Marek says. "I gotta finish my homework."
Tyler's mom nods. "Rain check on dinner, then."
"Definitely."
Tyler walks Marek back to his car, moving slowly down the driveway. Marek leans against the driver's side door.
"You sure you're okay?" he asks.
“Yeah.” Tyler buries his hands into his pockets.
"The maze really got to you, huh?”
"It wasn't the maze." The words slip out before Tyler can stop them.
Marek tilts his head. "What do you mean?"
Tyler opens his mouth, then closes it. How can he explain that it wasn't the jump scares that left him shaken? How can he tell Marek that the worst part was realizing he didn't want him to let go?
"Nothing," Tyler says flatly. "It's nothing."
Marek doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. He gets into the car and rolls down the window. "So, about homecoming," he says. “I'll go with you. If you're not gonna ask a girl, I mean.”
“Really?”
“Sure. We can get some other people, go as a group,” Marek says. “If it sucks we can bail and find a party or something. No pressure. Just think about it.”
“I will.” Tyler steps back as Marek reverses out of the driveway. He watches the taillights disappear down the street, then turns and heads back toward the house.
⏩︎
Tyler's been staring at his ceiling for two hours. The texture blurs when he unfocuses his eyes. It becomes the corn maze, the fog, Marek's face. He keeps replaying it. How he'd wanted to lean in, close that last bit of distance, press his mouth against Marek's and—
No. Cut it out.
He rolls onto his side, then his stomach, then back again. The sheets tangle around his legs. His room feels too small, the walls pressing in. He needs to move, needs to do something with his hands.
Finally, he gives up. Pads downstairs in his socks, careful on the steps that creak. The kitchen light hums when he flicks it on. He spreads newspaper across the table, yesterday's edition, something about the River Bandits making playoffs. Grabs his mom's good carving knives from the block by the stove, the ones she only brings out for Thanksgiving turkey.
His phone buzzes against the table. He jumps, nearly knocks over one of the pumpkins.
A text from Marek: hey u up
Tyler reads it twice.
ya. carving pumpkins.
He sets the phone down. Tries to focus on sketching a triangle nose onto the largest pumpkin, but his hand won't stay steady. The lines come out wobbly, uneven.
The phone buzzes again.
can't sleep
me either
Another buzz.
u want company?
Tyler's thumb hovers over the keypad. He should say no. He should say he's fine, he's tired, he'll see Marek tomorrow at school. That would be the smart thing. The safe thing.
He clicks through the letters slowly.
back door is unlocked.
He sets the phone down and waits.
Twenty minutes later, Tyler hears the hinges creak. His mom keeps telling him to spray WD-40 on them but he always forgets. Footsteps in the mudroom and then Marek appears in the kitchen doorway.
His hair's mussed, sticking up on one side where he's been lying on it. He's wearing pajama pants—the blue plaid ones Tyler's pretty sure used to be his before Marek "borrowed" them last winter—and a faded sweatshirt with a burn mark on the sleeve. No shoes, just white socks with a hole in the left toe. His face is flushed, damp with sweat at his temples and along his upper lip.
Tyler smiles before he can stop himself. "Hey."
"Hey." Marek's breathing a little hard. He slides into the chair across from him, eyeing the setup. The newspaper, the knives, the pumpkins with their half-drawn faces. "Wait. Aren't these supposed to be for decorations? Your mom said we'd carve them closer to Halloween."
Tyler shrugs, not meeting his eyes. "I know."
"Dude, they're gonna rot by then." Marek reaches over and gently takes the marker from Tyler's hand. "Come on, put the knives away. Let's save 'em."
"It's fine. We can go back and get more." Tyler's voice comes out smaller than he intended. He frowns. "But no maze next time."
Something flickers across Marek's expression. "Aw, no maze?"
Tyler shoots him a glare then deflects, gesturing at Marek's feet. "Dude. Where are your shoes?"
"Oh." Marek glances down like he's just noticing. "I rode my bike. Didn't want to wake anyone up starting the car."
"It's almost two in the morning."
"So? It's not that far." Marek wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Like fifteen minutes."
"In your socks?"
"I've got shoes at home. I just forgot to put 'em on." He's trying not to smile. "What, you worried about me?"
Tyler rolls his eyes, but his stomach does that stupid flip again. Marek biked over here in pajamas and socks because Tyler said he couldn't sleep. That's—
That doesn't mean anything. That's just what they do. What friends do.
Marek studies Tyler's face for a moment before he gets up and heads toward the fridge. "Do you still have that plate your mom made me?"
"The one you turned down?"
"Yeah, well, my mom made that gross-ass tuna casserole." Marek opens the door and peers inside. "Your mom’s a way better cook."
"Freeloader."
"I prefer 'frequent dinner guest.'" Marek emerges with the foil-covered plate. "Besides, your mom’s the one who offered. She loves me."
"She feels sorry for you," Tyler corrects.
Marek unwraps the plate and takes a bite of the cold meatloaf with an exaggerated moan. "God, this woman's an angel. You're lucky."
"Yeah," Tyler says quietly, watching Marek eat. "I am." He really is. Because of his mom. Because of Marek.
They sit in silence for a while, Marek working through his second dinner while Tyler fidgets with the Sharpie, rolling it between his fingers. The newspaper crinkles under his elbows.
"You know," Tyler says finally, "when you said that thing about homecoming..."
Marek pauses mid-chew. "What about it?"
"I might actually want to. Go, I mean."
The words hang in the air between them. Tyler forces himself to meet Marek's eyes across the table.
"Yeah?" Marek sets down his fork.
Tyler nods. "If you still want to. With the group thing."
"Course I do." Marek's lips quirk up. "So we're really doing this? Tyler Black going to homecoming?"
"Shut up."
"I'm not making fun. I'm just surprised."
"It's just a dance."
"Right," Marek says. "Just a dance."
⏮
Tyler's sixteen and they're in Marek's basement watching Raw. Marek's sprawled across the threadbare sofa with his head in Tyler's lap. He's dead to the world, fast asleep before the main event. Tyler's leg went numb ten minutes ago but he doesn't move. The annoyance of Marek lying heavy on his lap is still less of an annoyance than dealing with him when he's tired. Marek is impossible when he doesn't get enough sleep. Sulky and short-tempered and liable to start shit over nothing. Tyler lacks the patience tonight.
Marek's hair is getting long. It's shaggy, falling past his ears now, same as Tyler's. They'd decided to grow it out together back in June, said it made them look more like real wrestlers. It keeps falling into Marek's face, messy strands that shift every time he breathes.
His mouth is open. There's a red mark on his cheek from where it's been pressed against Tyler's jeans. One hand is curled against Tyler's knee, fingers loose and relaxed.
Maven hits a dropkick on TV. The crowd pops. Marek doesn't stir.
⏭
The back door clicks shut. Tyler listens to Marek's footsteps fade across the yard, the metallic tink of the bike chain, the groan of the back gate swinging open.
Tyler stands alone in the kitchen. Three pumpkins on the table, still intact.
Carve the face, light the candle, set it on the porch. For a week, maybe two, it's exactly as intended. But inevitably the edges start to brown. The mouth caves in. The eyes sag. By Thanksgiving it's collapsed into itself, orange mush rotting from the inside out.
Once it's cut, there's no going back, no way to make it whole again.
Tyler picks up one of the carving knives, turns it over in his hand to catch the light. He stares at his blurry reflection in the blade and slides it back into the block.