Chapter Text
The bass from the jukebox thrummed through the worn wooden table as Marcus set down another round of beers, the bottles sweating in the warmth of Sully's Bar. It was their spot – had been since they all turned twenty-one last year. Tucked two blocks from campus, cheap enough for broke college kids, and dim enough that nobody cared if they got a little too loud.
"To surviving midterms!" Jamie raised his bottle, grinning.
"Barely surviving," Ethan corrected, clinking his drink against the others. "That econ exam destroyed me."
Marcus slid back into the booth, his broad frame taking up more than his fair share of space. He ended up in his usual position – squeezed against the wall with Ryan to his left, close enough that their shoulders pressed together. Close enough that Marcus caught the scent of Ryan's cologne, something clean and expensive that he'd probably gotten free from a shoot.
"You say that every time, and you always pull a B minimum," Ryan said, nudging Ethan with his foot under the table. His smile was easy, the kind that came naturally to him. The kind that made Marcus's chest tighten.
"Speaking of shoots," Jones leaned forward, already two beers in and getting chatty, "didn't you have that sportswear campaign today? How'd it go?"
Ryan shrugged, but Marcus could see the pleased glint in his eye. "Pretty good. They want me back for the summer catalog." He pulled out his phone, swiping through photos. "The photographer sent me some test shots. Which one's better – this one or this one?"
He held the phone toward the group, and they all leaned in. Marcus forced himself to look at the images objectively, like he was just another friend giving an opinion. Not like he was studying the way Ryan's shoulders looked in that tank top, or how the lighting caught the defined lines of his arms.
"Left one," Marcus said, his voice steady. "Better angle."
"Yeah? I was thinking the same." Ryan's knee bumped against his under the table as he shifted, pulling the phone back. Casual. Meaningless. "You've got a good eye for this stuff."
Marcus took a long drink of his beer.
"Dude, the comments on your last post were insane," Jamie laughed, scrolling through his own phone. "Listen to this – 'Please tell me you're single.'" He put on a dramatic voice. "'I would let you ruin my life.'"
Ryan groaned, but he was smiling. "The thirsty comments are the worst."
"The worst?" Jones scoffed. "Man, you're living every guy's dream. Hot people throwing themselves at you."
"It's not like that translates to real life," Ryan said. He turned slightly toward Marcus, close enough that Marcus could see the small scar above his eyebrow from a childhood accident. "Most of them just like the photos, you know? It's not real."
Their eyes met for a second, and Marcus felt that familiar flip in his stomach. He looked away first, focusing on peeling the label off his bottle.
"Well, you're doing better than the rest of us," Ethan said. "When's the last time any of us went on an actual date?"
"Marcus was talking to that girl from his bio lab," Jamie offered.
Marcus felt Ryan's attention shift to him, could feel those blue eyes on the side of his face. "Oh yeah? What happened with that?"
"Nothing," Marcus said, keeping his tone casual. "Wasn't feeling it."
"You're too picky, man," Jones said.
If only you knew, Marcus thought. He raised his bottle. "Maybe I just have standards."
The conversation flowed around him – easier for the others, who didn't have to carefully monitor every glance, every word. Ryan's arm draped across the back of the booth, his fingers occasionally brushing Marcus's shoulder when he gestured while talking. Each touch was like a small electric shock that Ryan didn't even register.
"Oh shit," Ryan suddenly said, checking his phone. "I completely forgot – I'm supposed to meet with my agent tomorrow morning at eight. I should probably slow down." He pushed his half-finished beer toward the center of the table, then grinned at Marcus. "You're staying at my place tonight anyway, right? We can just Uber together."
It was a casual invitation. They crashed at each other's apartments all the time – Ryan's place was closer to campus, and Marcus's apartment had the better TV for game nights. Normal friend stuff.
"Yeah, sure," Marcus said.
Under the table, his hand gripped his knee hard enough to hurt.
The night wore on, stories getting louder and funnier as the drinks flowed. Marcus laughed in all the right places, contributed to the conversations, played his part perfectly. The supportive friend. The loyal bro. The guy who definitely wasn't in love with his best friend.
When Ryan leaned against his shoulder, tired and a little buzzed, saying "Love you, man – you guys are the best," Marcus just smiled and agreed.
Because that's what friends did.
…
The Uber ride was quiet, Ryan dozing against the window while Marcus sat rigid on his side of the backseat, maintaining a careful six inches of distance. The driver had the radio on low – some pop song Marcus didn't recognize – and the city lights blurred past in streaks of neon and yellow.
Ryan's apartment building was nicer than Marcus could ever afford on his own. The modeling money helped, even if Ryan was always weirdly modest about it. The lobby had actual marble floors and a doorman who nodded at them as they passed.
"God, I'm exhausted," Ryan mumbled as they waited for the elevator, running a hand through his hair. The motion made his shirt ride up slightly, exposing a sliver of toned stomach. Marcus looked at the elevator numbers instead.
Third floor. Ryan's apartment was at the end of the hall, a one-bedroom that he'd decorated with surprising taste – or maybe his last girlfriend had helped. Marcus couldn't remember. There'd been a few over the past year, none lasting more than a couple months.
"You want the couch or we sharing?" Ryan asked, already heading toward his bedroom while toeing off his shoes. "I can grab the spare pillows."
They'd shared Ryan's bed dozens of times. It was a king-size, plenty of room. Normal friend stuff, especially after nights out drinking.
"Couch is fine," Marcus heard himself say.
Ryan paused in his bedroom doorway, looking back with a slight frown. "You sure? It's not that comfortable. Remember last time you said your back was killing you?"
"I'll survive."
"Dude, don't be weird about it. There's plenty of space." Ryan disappeared into his room, and Marcus heard drawers opening. "I've got an extra shirt if you want. Might be tight on you though."
Marcus set his keys on the kitchen counter, looking around the familiar space. Photos on the walls – some professional shots from Ryan's portfolio, but mostly candid ones of their friend group. There was one from last summer, all five of them at the beach. Marcus stood at the back, Ryan in front of him, and if you looked closely, you could see the way Marcus was looking down at Ryan instead of at the camera.
He should've asked for that photo to be deleted.
Ryan emerged in sleep pants and a worn university t-shirt, holding out similar clothes for Marcus. "Here. Bathroom's open if you want to change."
Their fingers brushed during the handoff. Ryan didn't notice.
Marcus locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His jaw was tight, his eyes darker than usual. Get it together, he told himself. This is nothing new. You've handled this a hundred times.
He splashed cold water on his face and changed quickly. Ryan's shirt was indeed tight across his chest and shoulders, the fabric straining. He'd sleep in his own shirt.
When he came out, Ryan was already in bed, scrolling through his phone, the lamp on his nightstand casting warm light across his features. He looked up when Marcus appeared.
"Seriously, the couch?" Ryan set his phone down. "Marcus, come on. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"You've been weird all night." Ryan sat up slightly, concern creasing his forehead. "Since the bar. Did someone say something? Is it about that girl from bio?"
Marcus felt something crack inside his chest. Ryan's obliviousness wasn't cruelty – it was worse. It was genuine care, genuine worry for his friend, without the slightest awareness of what he was actually asking.
"I'm fine," Marcus said. "Just tired."
"Then sleep here. I'm not letting my best friend destroy his back on that shitty couch." Ryan patted the other side of the bed. "Come on. Don't make it weird."
Too late for that, Marcus thought.
But he found himself walking toward the bed anyway, because saying no again would raise more questions. Because Ryan was looking at him with those clear blue eyes, completely trusting, completely unguarded.
Marcus turned off the overhead light and slid under the covers, staying as close to his edge as possible. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. Ryan's phone screen glowed for another minute before he set it on the nightstand and turned off the lamp.
Darkness settled over the room, broken only by the faint light from the street filtering through the curtains.
"Hey Marcus?" Ryan's voice came soft in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for always being there. Seriously. You're like... the most solid person I know." A pause. "I don't tell you that enough."
Marcus stared at the ceiling, his hands fisted in the sheets. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure Ryan could hear it.
"That's what friends are for," he managed.
"Best friends," Ryan corrected, already half-asleep. "Love you, man."
The words hung in the air between them. Three words that meant everything and nothing at all.
"Yeah," Marcus whispered. "Love you too."
Ryan's breathing evened out within minutes, the sleep of someone with nothing to hide and nothing weighing on their conscience. Marcus lay awake in the darkness, acutely aware of every sound – the soft rhythm of Ryan's breathing, the distant traffic outside, his own thundering pulse.
Ryan shifted in his sleep, rolling toward the center of the bed. His arm flung out carelessly, landing across Marcus's chest. Still asleep. Still completely unaware.
Marcus closed his eyes and didn't move. Didn't push the arm away. Allowed himself this one stolen moment in the dark where he could pretend, just for a little while, that this meant something different.
That he meant something different.
Outside, the city hummed on, indifferent to the quiet agony of wanting someone you could never have.