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It’s raining. Mark can hear the loud pitter patter of raindrops, can see the water run in small rivulets down the window pane, drops racing each other down the glass as clouds cover the sky, thick and grey and cold. It makes for a welcoming distraction from the video he’s editing, and he leans back in his chair as he watches it fall; joyfully bouncing off his window sill and diving into the puddles down below. He hears thunder rumble outside, like the contented purring of a cat, and smiles. There’s going to be a storm, then.
The front door opens, the sound of rain growing louder and joined by a gust of cold air that whistles in greeting. The door swings shut again, blocking out the cold and the wet, and Mark can hear slightly laboured breathing, can hear the kicking off of shoes and the sound of footsteps down the hall. He’s back.
Mark sits there for a couple more minutes, granting the weather a little more of his attention as the first strike of lightning flashes through the sky, and then gets up from his chair. His back is stiff and his legs ache from lack of movement, but it’s a pleasant pain – one that comes with a productive day and a feeling of general satisfaction. He walks towards the bedroom, steps soft and unhurried, stopping to smile at the pictures hung up in the hall. His favourite is still the one just opposite the living room; lips pressed against a stubbled cheek and long lashes brushing against soft skin as laughter took over their bodies, the angle slightly wonky from how he’d been holding the phone. They look so happy there, with their scarves and gloves and flushed faces. A good day, captured forever in a small wooden frame.
He takes a couple more steps, eyes roaming over days at the beach and breakfasts in bed and that time they almost set fire to the kitchen, and then he’s pushing open the bedroom door, quietly stepping inside. He’s greeted by a tired smile and warm blue eyes, and his boy is wrapped up in a hoodie that’s much too big for him, wet hair finger-combed into submission and hidden by that fluffy hat Mark loves so much.
“Hi”, he says quietly, making his way across the room.
“Hi,” Jack replies, his voice a barely audible murmur, and his jeans have been kicked off and abandoned at the edge of the bed, blankets pulled up around his waist where he’s propped up against the headboard, laptop already balanced on his lap.
“How was your day?” Mark asks as he crawls in beside him, and he wants to know every last detail, wants him to keep talking and talking until he falls asleep, voice fading as he rests his head against Mark’s chest, feeling safe enough to fall asleep in his arms.
“It was okay,” Jack says, and he’s got this smile, the kind that tells Mark that something special happened, but he’s not sure if anyone wants to hear it. Mark reaches out and wraps an arm around him, pulling him close and pressing his lips against the shell of his ear.
“Tell me,” he says softly, and Jack leans back against him, sighing contentedly as his arm rests above Mark’s, fingers absent-mindedly brushing against his skin.
“Well, this morning I played some more 'Turmoil', which was fun because I'm getting a lot better at it, especially since I started over. Anyway, then I had to go to the shops, and while I was there I…”
Mark listens, listens to the way his voice speeds up when he goes through details he thinks aren’t that important, listens to how he pronounces his ‘t’s and how his accent gets thicker as he gets more invested in the story he’s telling. He listens to his giggle, feeling how it travels up his body before spilling out of soft pink lips, like bubbles. He listens to every single word, saving them to his brain so that he’ll always be able to hear his voice the way it actually sounds when he thinks back to this, so that nothing is lost to the inner workings of his brain, no detail forgotten or changed. He listens, and he watches. He watches the curve of his lips when he smiles and the way he reaches up to scratch at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie, he watches how he frowns when he can’t remember something correctly and how his eyes widen when the information comes back to him. He watches his tongue flick over his lips when they’re dry from talking for too long, he watches the blush rise in his cheeks when he admits something embarrassing. He watches every moment, every facial expression, and fuck, he’s so beautiful.
He’s so beautiful, and he’s so soft and warm. Sleepy from a long day, cosy in the blankets and the hoodie and Mark’s arms. His fringe is curling from the rain and his skin is cool against Mark’s, perpetually cold hands slowly warming up in his grip. Dark blue eyes look up at him, and they’re fond and adoring and a little exasperated.
“You didn’t hear a thing, did ya?” he asks, and he’s wrong, because Mark heard everything, but he feigns guilty anyway, replying with a sheepish smile and a kiss against his temple.
“Tell me again?” he asks, and Jack rolls his eyes, pushing himself up to quickly kiss his lips, and he tastes of coffee and cream and smells like autumn, and Mark is so, so in love with him.
“I will if you stop getting distracted,” he says, and he’s smiling, bright and warm and gorgeous and his.
“I can’t promise anything,” Mark murmurs, trailing his fingers down the side of his face, watching the skin grow pink under his touch. And it’s been months now, but he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to this, to the fact that he can just reach out and touch him whenever he wants to, that he’s allowed to do this. He's so unbelievably lucky, and he has no idea what he did to deserve this, but he's incredibly, endlessly grateful.
“Where did ya lose me?” Jack asks softly, eyes fluttering shut as his hand comes up to cover his own, and Mark leans forward to press feather light kisses to his eyelids and his nose. He gets a soft giggle for his trouble, and he’d give up everything he has just to be able to hear that giggle once a day, for as long as he lives.
“I never did,” he admits, “I just like hearing your voice.”
Jack smiles again, pressing himself closer into Mark’s side, and their fingers entwine as he starts talking again. And it’s not the same story; it’s a different one, something about rainstorms when he was a child. Mark closes his eyes and holds him close, listening to his voice as it fills his heart with joy, and lets the rain drops fall on.