Chapter Text
Marco's final paper is something he's very, very proud of, thank you very much.
He's spent hours and days and weeks on it, stayed up late at night to research meiotic and mitotic cellular divisions (thoroughly annoying his roommate Auba, who can't sleep with the lights on, bless him), carefully drawing out diagrams with an actual pencil and reference. It's the best piece of work he's done in his life (even Boa approves of the quality, so it's not just in his head) and he's intensely happy with it-- it warrants an A- at the very least.
"Hella proud of it, aren't you," Auba teases, leaning against the kitchen counter and taking a sip of his coffee as he watches Marco smooth out the paper and read it yet again. "That's, what. The fifteth time you're reading the damn thing?"
Marco, though, is so excited about handing it in that he completely fails to come up with a sassy reply, instead mumbling a lame "don't exaggerate, Auba," and going back to read the next paragraph.
"Not that I'm complaining, dude," Auba grins, pushing the cup of coffee to Marco, who squawks and hurriedly pulls the paper out of line of harm. "But never knew you were so passionate about biology."
"I'm not," Marco admits. "Pass me the Nutella."
"Yeah, well, little rebel Reus is turning a good leaf," Auba quips, not even looking behind him as he scrabbles for the jar of Nutella. His eyes soften when he adds, "I'm proud of you, man."
"Oh, give over," Marco groans, secretly feeling pleased as he spreads liberal amounts of chocolate spread over his toast.
Auba holds up his head in mock surrender. "Sure, dude, sure. By the way," he leans to the side to look out of the kitchen window. "It's going to rain today, you sure you don't want to me to drop you to class?"
"Nah," Marco says, taking care to spray crumbs on his friend. "I'll manage, it probably won't start raining till much later."
"Whatever, man." Auba looks dubious, but relents nevertheless.
Later, Marco wonders what made him refuse Auba's offer.
*
It's an average day at university-- same old food fights, sleeping through classes (Marco is actually hella proud of himself for remembering what subjects he studies) and submissions and lectures. The only downside of the day is that he doesn't get to hand his Bio paper in, because of-fucking-course Ancelotti is ill the day Marco has actually done some work.
It's a given relief to most of the students ("thank fuck!" Thomas exclaims, earning a stern but amused look from both Manu and Jogi, who is substituting. "I haven't written a word!") and everybody is grateful to have another day to complete their work-- everybody but Marco.
He is cursed, he decides.
His bad mood doesn't dissipate throughout the day-- he ends up snapping at poor Jonas and drives Benni away to Robert by lunchbreak. He's surprised at himself-- usually he's the fun, cheerful and mischevious one-- but he really doesn't want to help it.
The rest of the day is torture. He just wants to go home, make some hot chocolate and marshmallows, fall into bed and die.
"Stop being so dramatic," Mats says when he mentions this, and wow, coming from Mats, that's a lot.
The final bell rings-- about fucking time, Marco thinks-- and he heads out as fast as he can without his friends. The streets are mostly deserted, partly because of the hour and partly because of the threatening, huge rain clouds that hang ominously in the grey sky.
He's about halfway home when it starts to rain. Hard.
Fuck, he thinks.
"Fuck," he says aloud to nobody in general, because there's nobody to hear him.
He looks around wildly. There aren't even any shops on this godforsaken street, ugh-- only a tiny awning outside a cafe (which is, of course, locked), with just another figure standing underneath it.
He doesn't exactly have any other option-- he trudges to it wearily, taking his time, his wet backpack heavy on his shoulders, full of books that just be soaked by now--
Marco's eyes grow wide.
His final paper. Is in his backpack.
"FUCK!" He yells, sprinting towards the tiny awning like he's never run before, making the other figure already standing there look up in surprise. He doesn't care though, not really-- not when half the semester's grade is possibly dissolved in the bottom of his bag.
He's mildly aware that the other guy there is judging him so bad, but what matters? He considers turning his bag upside down, hoping that it won't damage too many of his notebooks.
"Hey," a voice says.
Marco looks up.
His brain allows him just enough leeway to register brown, dishevelled hair, brown eyes, a sunny smile and a fucking sexy voice before the fear for his paper overtakes him again-- he nods at the cute guy and goes back to tipping the contents out of his bag, his mouth twitching uncontrollably.
"Hey," the guy says again, and continues when Marco doesn't look up. "You're going to tear everything apart in your bag that way, don't do that."
Perhaps Marco wouldn't have been so rude to such a cute guy in a normal situation, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "My final paper is in this bag!"
"And you're going to tear it if you shake your bag like that," the guy continues calmly. "Do you want me to help?"
Marco squints at the guy suspiciously. He really is cute, he thinks, fit and a little shorter than him, with chubby cheeks which are red from the cold. Sunny, his brain supplies helpfully.
"Okay," he allows finally, handing the bag to the guy. "Please be careful."
"Don't worry."
Marco watches carefully, nervously biting his nails as Sunny delicately takes out every notebook and piece of paper delicately from Marco's bag, laying it out carefully on the coffee table.
The rain starts to heat down even harder, but they're safe under the tiny awning, completely dry and at least they're together, Marco thinks.
When Sunny pulls out his final paper, Marco nearly cries.
Because the thing is completely unharmed, completely untouched, as good as new, not even soggy around the edges. Marco nearly screams with relief.
"Oh my god," he babbles nonsensically, taking the paper from the grinning guy the way a father accepts his newborn for the first time. "Oh my fucking god, oh my god. Thank you, thank--"
"No worries," Sunny says, and for the first time, Marco notices that when he smiles, there's this adorable little front gap showing between his teeth.
Marco is pretty sure he's going to end up kissing him, whether from sheer relief or actual attraction, so he tactfully averts his eyes, looking around.
"Guess we're stuck here for a while, huh?" He asks.
Sunny looks at him sideways. "I suppose so."
They stare at the rain in silence as Marco's heartbeat slows down. It's a nice silence.
Then suddenly Marco's phone rings, making them both jump. He glances at the guy apologetically, who waves it off.
"Hello?"
"Marco?" Auba's voice floats over the other end. "You okay? Are you somewhere dry?"
"Yeah, I'm good," Marco says honestly. "I'm outside this café, with, uh--"
He looks at the guy meaningfully, who smiles and supplies a "Mario."
"--Mario," he tells Auba, patting himself on the shoulder mentally. Nice one, Reus. Smooth.
"Who's Mario?" Auba asks, and Marco can literally hear his grin on the other end, the fucker.
"He saved my final paper," Marco says, grinning at Mario shamelessly.
"Your hero, huh?" Auba teases. "You love that paper more than you love me."
"My hero," Marco agrees, and Mario laughs beside him.
"Alright, I'm in class so I can't pick you up," Auba says. "You stay put till the rain stops, okay?"
"Yes, mother," Marco says, and both Mario and Auba laugh. It's a nice feeling, both of them laughing.
"Though you possibly won't mind." Auba says sagely.
Marco doesn't deny it. He looks at Mario, who looks back, a twinkle in his eye, his front gap showing again.
"No," Marco says. "I don't mind."
He hangs up and stares Mario a little nervously, his heart starting to beat overtime.
"I'm Marco," he says finally.
"Marco," repeats Mario, tasting the name, and Marco likes the way it rolls off his tongue.
The stare at each other in silence. It's way too perfect, way too romantic, something that Marco never thought would happen to him-- two strangers standing with each other, safe from the pouring rain, away from the world, staring into each other's souls.
(Marco has definitely become more dramatic than Mats.)
(Or maybe he's just falling in love.)
"Penny for your thoughts?" Mario says.
"I--" Marco starts, unsure, and suddenly blurts out. "I wanna kiss you."
Mario fucking shrugs. "I want o kiss you too."
Marco's not sure who starts to lean in first-- he'll never be sure, because when he asks Mario about it years later, Mario won't know either-- but suddenly their noses are almost brushing and Mario's eyes have Marco completely hooked, completely smitten, and their lips haven't even touched, but Marco already feels like he's on top of the world--
-- and then Mario's lips are on his, and Marco's senses explode.
It's a slow kiss, gentle but sure, tentative but daring, no teeth and hardly any tongue, only a battle of emotions and attraction and feelings that Marco didn't even know were possible to feel. Mario brings his hands up to Marco's face, gripping it gently as he pulls on Marco's bottom lip between his teeth, and it's perfect, so fucking perfect, both cold but warm in each other, Marco's final paper clutched in his hand as his arms hold Mario's waist.
They surface only for air. Marco is more breathless than he's been in his entire life, and Mario's cheeks are even redder than before.
"My god," Marco says, still rely from the sheer splendidness of the kiss. "You're an amazing kisser."
Mario grins and pretends to contemplate Marco. "You're not too bad."
"Ah, fucker," Marco says, smiling.
Mario laughs, the sound clear in the relative silence. "I'm kidding. You're," he smiles at Marco. "That was really nice. You're a great kisser, too."
"I pride myself on my kissing skills," Marco says, preening a little, and he wants to hear Mario's laugh for the rest of his life.
"Modest, much?"
"Me? Never!"
They stand in silence for a while, hand in hand. Their ecstatic grins fade into contented smiles, the high from the kiss dissolving into sated, subtle happiness and satisfaction.
"So what now?" Mario says.
"Now," Marco replies. "We exchange numbers and I take you out to dinner on Saturday."
"Very smooth, smartass," Mario teases, taking Marco's phone and tapping in his number before handing it back. "I meant, what do we do right now?"
"Well," Marco pretends to contemplate his options, though Marco's expression says humour me. "We could make out till the rain stops?"
"Sounds good," Mario grins.
Marco moves in, but stops just before their lips touch.
"What?" Mario says.
"Do you think they'll deliever pizza here?"