Work Text:
"I like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
I like your body.
I like what it does, I like its hows."
—E. E. Cummings
“Need your tits. Tonight,”
The first time he received such a message, the urge was stronger than him—a shameless guffaw escaped him right in front of his students.
Supervising.
In the middle of an exam.
Pretending to be knee-deep in papers when he was actually idling on his phone.
Needless to say, it was terribly inappropriate and painfully unprofessional and unbecoming of someone like him—known for his academic focus, held in such high regard by his students.
But such is Gemma’s talent—possessing the singular ability to startle unexpected things out of him, even when she’s not physically present. This time, however, the text message is more familiar in its form, and it catches him in the faculty lounge amidst mild discussions of the beginning of term and the malfunctioning coffeemaker. Secretly amused, Mark suppresses a smile purely for decorum, nodding to his Department Head and the sycophants that surround him. When he slips his phone back in his pocket, his cheeks look only a little redder than usual.
Well. Now he is filled with curiosity, as well as anticipation.
It would be exceedingly difficult to pinpoint the exact origin of this private ritual; there are things that simply arise with time and history and shared moments and shared places.
The place where bodies meet is always vulnerable for them—full of tentativeness, newness—and despite all their years together, it still awes him—her longing for him, the tender touch that she bestows upon him. Eventually, the hours squished together lead to her admission that she takes great comfort in squeezing this and that of him—his bicep, his chest, his butt cheeks.
The intent isn’t sexual, or at least, it isn’t always—being more an extension of Gemma’s tactile nature, a delight both sensual and lovingly possessive.
She says it turns a bad day into a good one, and well, Mark can’t argue with that logic. Although he has accumulated many insecurities over the years, some of them as persistent as stings, they all melt away in the safety of her.
So. The truth—he is hers to do as she pleases, and today is no exception.
The remainder of his working hours are spent wondering about the twists and turns of Gemma’s day, in the confines of the brutalist side of campus, one thing or the other going crookedly.
She couldn’t make it to the canteen to eat lunch together today, which is always a bad sign.
Perhaps students showed up for unexpected tutoring during her free hours, or perhaps it was one of the oldest faculty members interrupting her lectures for increasingly petty reasons. Either way, they meet surprisingly on time by the parking lot—it’s one of those rare days when their schedules align, each of them bringing the remaining papers and grading home to save time and share the car ride.
Gemma looks certainly bleary-eyed, brow slightly creased, but not as tired as he’d feared—it is only when she deflates relieved in the car that he feels bold enough to start this dance, remarking innocently: “So you won’t believe this, but I received a very weird text message today”.
All he gets is the sly curving of a lip breaking through her expression; a curve Mark knows better than he knows his own name. Similarly, he knows that she can’t wait for the day to over, and she only considers it so once they’re comfortably sprawled over the couch or the bed—so Mark pushes on the gas pedal a little too eagerly.
The simple act of kicking off their shoes by the entrance feels like a victory, and dropping her leather messenger bag, Gemma triumphs against the work week: “Friday!”
For the time being, their things will remain on the floor, as is customary—but not too long, because they have their own pride and shabbiness is something they’re staunchly opposed to.
He loses sight of Gemma up in their bedroom, very briefly, and before Mark can either finish untying his tie or form any sort of reaction, she tackles him from behind—faceplanting against the mattress, effectively immobilized—and then they’re both a heap of limbs and giggles on the bed. In the space of a second she’s spooning him, her knees pressing against the back of his, hands finding their way across the layers of fabric.
“Jesus, you’re wearing an undershirt?” Gemma teases, frustration mixing with her eagerness as she runs her hands along his ribs.
“Of course I’m wearing an undershirt, it was chilly today,”
He can practically see her rolling her eyes, mumbling against his shirt collar. “It’s September,”
“It was chilly today!” he insists.
Gemma simply hums in mock disapproval, holding him tighter.
Gingerly, Mark loosens her hold with a kiss to her wrist, easing them both so that he can continue undressing next to her. Pulling the cursed undershirt over his head, he takes in her hungry look, the playful narrowing of her eyes. Then he’s being pinned against the bed again.
Resisting the urge to laugh, Mark reaches to cradle the familiar weight lying on top of him.
“Hm. That bad?”
Gemma half-growls, half-whines against the pillow. He thinks he can make out ‘fucking shit’ in Russian, hot and tickly against his neck.
“Shut up. This is between your tits and me,”
“What happened?”
“The events coordinator,” she says, grabbing a handful of him. He can feel the burning blush rising to his face when her thumb grazes over his nipple. “He’s been dodging my emails lately. I keep asking for the Katz auditorium for the poetry readings, but today he told me it’s not possible. Not there nor in the Gardner Hall, nor any of the other big lecture halls,” she sighs in that indignant way of hers. “We’ll end up reading poems in the broom closet at this rate,”
This has been a constant battle for a while now, so it doesn’t come as a surprise to Mark. Her disappointment is more than understandable.
When they met years ago, she had the luxury of a fantastically ample room, as many seats as she desired, and many more students and members of the Russian Literature club to fill them. He was there, too, of course—on more than one occasion, because something about seeing her in her element made him fall head over heels all over again.
To know that they’re being relegated to smaller and smaller rooms seems to point inevitably to the decline and the devaluation of the arts in this fast-paced, hypermodern society. Civilization going downhill.
“Ah. I’m sorry. It’s always us, isn’t it? Poor Humanities & the Arts fellows, always begging for crumbs,” Gemma agrees with his lament, but her hands are busy, softly kneading him with the languidness of a cat. Her fingers dance around his stomach before returning to his chest. “We should riot. Against the monopoly of the Business and Law faculties.”
He had hoped his quips would have the desired effect, but Gemma simply lingers, stopping her ministrations—her eyes are firmly closed, as though in hiding. Some tension remains still on her shoulders, palpable under her skin. Though disappointing, he doubts a few unusual skirmishes with the events coordinator were enough to upset her in this way.
It is this suspicion that prompts him to ask:
“Hey, is there something else? It kinda sounded like there was,”
“The 1pm slot today,” she concedes faintly, like she just defeated whatever was holding her back. “There was this one student… I had just finished my introduction, when out of the blue, without even raising his hand, he said out loud-“ and she mimics an annoying teenager voice. “Why are you teaching Russian Literature if you’re not Russian? Shouldn’t you be teaching Chinese literature instead or something?”
Mark props himself up on his elbows, the moment torn in two.
It takes a second before the gravity of the words sink in.
“Jesus. That happened?” a resigned, telling silence. “You told him to fuck off, right?”
It’s all metaphorical, for obvious reasons—the college normative demands that they act with restraint and propriety, even when treating with racist or bigoted pigs—but Mark still hopes she defended herself. Keeping your job shouldn’t mean submitting to public debasement.
Gemma doesn’t answer right away, but she averts her eyes, lost in thought. “I wish,”
A thick knot forms around his throat, a painful image coalescing in his mind.
Perhaps rather innocently, Mark has made his own assumptions about the world, and it serves for sour disappointments in times like these. It is a distinct ache especially when it comes from generations that are younger, supposedly more open and less judgemental than their predecessors. To encounter bold ignorance on this scale feels like a bucket of ice being dumped over his head.
“Sometimes these things do happen,” Gemma bites back her resentment with a soft shake of her head. “Besides, he’s stupid, he’s just a kid.”
She’s right—partly. It doesn’t erase the fact that these things should not happen at all. No matter how much she attempts to brush it off, it doesn’t sit right with him.
“Well, he’s a kid to us,” Mark counters gingerly. “But that’s a full-grown person objectively speaking. He is absolutely, legally responsible if shit like that comes out of his mouth.”
Inhale. Exhale.
Bitterness softens, and then all that remains is this residual sadness, this unspoken understanding that yes, it is tiring to face the world, it is exhausting to take its blows, but at the end of the day I am home and I am here with you and I can take those burdens off your shoulders. Gemma breathes out a sigh before she lays her head down again. He thinks the place above his heart might as well been made exactly for that purpose—for her resting form, to support the shape and weight of her soul.
“We’ll find out his name, and by the time I’m done with him he’ll be persona non-fucking-grata in every college of the state.”
Half a tease, half serious—the perfect balance of Scout-sarcasm to lift the heaviness sticking to them. A small laugh bubbles up her throat, casting ripples across his entire body.
Sitting up, Gemma undoes her own shirt with lazy fingers, shrugging off her bra without even unclasping it. When she collapses back, she does so with arms outstretched, the way he’s seen her do in the snow to leave their silhouettes imprinted.
She looks beautiful like this—a little messy, a little soothed—some of her worries eased.
“Can I make it up to you somehow?” Mark offers, inching closer, resting his chin on her bicep and letting Gemma fill in the gaps. She knows that it’s hers, anything she desires.
She smiles thoughtfully before replying. “Hmm. Dinner.”
Sounds like a fair deal to Mark.
It is impossible not to return the smile with one of his own; he is about to confirm that her wish is indeed his command when another threat befalls him again.
“But before that, let me just-” and this time she locks him in place, wrapping her arms and legs around him in a crushing embrace.
It’s too wonderful and too sudden—startling a frankly undignified sound from him, a squeaky toy replacing his vocal cords.
The night outside the windows is cool and dark, a blend of dying colours—inside only honeyed warmth and feathered slowness. It occurs to him just how lucky he is in this moment, and in every other moment he gets to share with her—how incredible it is to have found each other, chosen each other—amidst the chaos and the turmoil and the unkindness. Feeling curl of their bodies relax against each other, Mark relishes the uncomplicated pleasure of being held.
“Hey,” he says, disentangling a little, running a hand through her hair. “This is the best part of the day,”
When Gemma looks up at him again, she smiles with just her eyes—oh—he still cannot believe that he gets to exist under that gaze.
“I mean, not you being mad about stuff,” he clarifies, suddenly sheepish. He might be flushing pink again. “Obviously. But… this… is nice.”
He knows that she can see right through him—understanding of every trip or slip of his words—but she still squeezes him in reassurance.
“I know, baby.”
Under her touch, his heart skips a beat the way it sometimes does, and Gemma trails whisper soft kisses across his collarbone.
It is something approaching wonder, something approaching discovery—how this is it, the fading of their troubles and the loving restoration of peace; the absolute certainty that of all the places in the world, this is exactly where they should be. It feels slightly irresponsible to delay dinner in this way, but Gemma kisses him like she doesn’t care. Returning the gesture, they leave no room for anything else—the world reduced to falling leaves and white cotton sheets and bare shoulders and the brush of skin and this softly holding on.