finchwoodacademy | IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

"Sleepy McNaptime over here living the dream." Liam teases. Tilting his head back up and letting his chin rest on the tire, he falls silent. Each time Marty's hands touch his back, he can feel it beneath his coat, in his skin. Maybe he's imagining it - the warmth, the way it vibrates through him - but even so, he gets lost in the rhythm of it.

At the apex of the third swing, Liam brings his feet down. Marty's question has him lifting his chin, staring off into the darkness. "Got pulled into a riptide," he starts, even though that's not the first thing that happened. It feels fuzzy and trying to recall it all sets his heart to racing. "It kept trying to get in everyone's heads. There were...clones? Doppelgangers. Of Finchwood kids. They-" He sighs, twisting up the rope so he can face Marty, who can probably guess what Liam had to do to the familiar-faced crystalline constructs they'd encountered. "Then Kyra and CC got...whammied. So, had to fight them."

Liam lets himself swing back to Marty. And once he's there, he carefully hooks his feet around Marty's legs, to hold them both in place, close. "But, that door's closed, now, at least." There's nothing victorious in his voice. He stares up at Marty (it's weird, staring up at Marty), then flicks some snow from the top of the tire at him.

"Mhmm. When I sleep, I sleep like a baby," he replies. This time, when Liam reaches the apex of his swing, he digs his heels in. Though Marty meets his back with his hands, he doesn't push. Marty sucks his teeth when Liam mentions the riptide. "I don't like not being able to breathe," he says, uncharacteristically quiet, serious. He enjoys the fighting, that's no secret. Getting hit is just a part of that — when something hits you, hit it back harder, until it stops. But suffocating is different. Flailing, fading. He's not sure he had ever truly felt afraid before the day a shadow almost strangled him to death.

As he listens to Liam speak, he moves his hands to rest on top of his shoulders instead. Dopplegangers. Using your own friends and teammates against you. That seemed to be the theme for this dungeon. He's glad his squad never had to face that, but he's sorry Liam had. It would have been easier for him, Marty thinks, to shatter look-a-likes without it weighing on him. Liam twists on his heels, letting his own weight swing him around and away. "There's always some new fresh bullshit," Marty replies. Fighting friends, the real people, would be harder. They had all been thinking about it, training for it, dreading it.

Someone else might have words of condolence or encouragement. Marty isn't good with words, so instead, he pulls a flask out of his back pocket and holds it up in offering. Perhaps in answer, Liam swings back to meet him. He hooks his ankles behind Marty's legs, and Marty grabs the rope to anchor him. "When one door closes, another opens." It's true, but not at all comforting. He starts to offer the flask, but when snow strikes him in the face, he makes a show of sputtering and shaking it out of his hair, then hiding the flask behind his back.

Liam watches Marty with curious eyes, reading every change in his expression, every gesture, with interest. Compassion needn't be expressed with words. No, sometimes Liam sees so much of it in Marty that it makes his head swim. And here, each of them holding the other in place, they're very nearly a tangle. Not quite, but close. Careful, like a dance. Isn't that how it always is? Thinking on it too long presses on his lungs, and he has to lift his head to better breathe.

In a way, they're both afraid of drowning. "Until they're all shut." he answers, meaning it to be optimistic. Liam stretches his arm around Marty's back, pulling closer, groping for the flask in Marty's hand. He finds his wrist, first, instead. And that seems like a fine thing to close his fingers around. "And you're going to keep breathing. To the last door, and on." He needs that to be true.

When Liam looks at him that way, Marty feels like he's reading him like a book. Specifically, one of Liam's kind of books, the ones that you can use to hold a door open. Which is unusual because not only was Marty pretty sure he was already an open book, it's a picture book at that. It's almost uncomfortable, not because he's afraid Liam will see something he doesn't want him to, but because he looks like he's taking time reading things that aren't there at all, like when they try to dissect books in English class. Sometimes curtains are just blue. Marty glances away.

Liam grabs his wrist, pulling them as close as they can be with the tire still between them. Marty can feel his breath on his face. If Liam wants the flask, he'll have to fight him for it, because he's holding it firmly in place. "I did promise that," he answers, not quite an agreement. Because he's a liar when it suits him and he knows that he has made other promises he would break that one for. There are people here he would take a bullet for, and it's strange. The fighting was always easy, it's caring that's new and hard.

But he doesn't really want to talk about that, and he figures that if Liam had wanted to talk, he would have texted someone else. Marty knows what he's good for. He is a lit bottle rocket, great for a distraction. He leans in without warning, giving Liam a quick and fervent kiss, just enough to break the hold of the somber topic. "You know. My roommates are conspicuously missing. Shame to waste an opportunity like that."

A hundred different things rocket through Liam's head when Marty looks away, worries rushing in like water through a breached ship's hull. It's an incoherent disaster, and the only sense Liam can make of it is that feeling any of this to begin with is bad. Bad, bad, bad. They're supposed to be blowing off steam, not...whatever he's doing.

He's at the cusp of a sigh when Marty's lips find his. And it's the contact, rather than the heat behind the kiss, that stills everything sloshing around in Liam's head. But, the energy of it words as intended, too. Liam's thoughts go red and dense and fuzzy. And although he's left feeling even messier than before, Marty's suggestion winds something tight, low in Liam's stomach. His gaze dips. God, that does sound too good to pass up. And it's stupid to think that this is anything more than it is, right? That they could be anything more? Stupid, for sure. And a good way to get a broken heart...

But, then, Liam's a master of breaking his own heart. "That sounds fun," he responds, loosening his grip on Marty's wrist, going in search not of the withheld flask, but of Marty's hand. As he slides his fingertips over Marty's knuckles, Liam presses his lips to the corner of Marty's mouth. "Thanks," he says, finding the courage to look Marty in the face once again. "For coming down and talking with me. Feeling a lot better, now."

Marty breaks the kiss, but doesn't move any further back than that. It's frigid out, and though Marty had thrown on a shirt and coat before bolting into the night, that was all. His blue jeans don't do much to stop the wind, and his bare neck and hands and face almost burn with impending numbness. In proximity, there's a shelter from the cold. "I know," he responds with a smirk that can be felt more than seen. He feels Liam's fingers, and wonders whether he's trying to take the flask while his guard is down or hold his hand. "Don't mention it," he responds nonchalantly, but he does meet Liam's gaze again. "I'm glad." And he is. He didn't do much talking, but Liam does seem less tense than he had a little while ago.

"Now—" he says after a brief silence, interrupting himself to press a quick but chaste kiss to Liam's lips "— are we going to sit out here and freeze our asses off, or...?" With considerably more difficulty than he anticipated, he manages to disentangle himself, using the hand on the rope to push himself away. He immediately starts shivering, but tries not to show it. Instead, he unscrews the flask with a flourish and tips it back, a central casting bad boy. When he's done, he extends it again, but out of reach. If Liam wants it, he'll have to get off the swing.

All this heady contact crashes with a storm of feelings Liam knows better than to be having, leaving him breathless and dizzy. He leans heavily on the tire swing as Marty steps away. The chill is immediate. It is unwelcome. But it does clear his head. Enough that when Marty knocks his flask back, he has the sense to roll his eyes instead of mooning even more.

He slips out of the tire with ease, body built for folding up and bending at strange angles as needed. Then, noticing the way Marty's tensed against the cold, he unwinds his scarf, throwing it around Marty's neck and using it to pull him close enough to retrieve the flask. "I think you'd make a great ice cube," Liam decides, taking a sip and folding one end of the scarf over Marty's shoulders - bundling him up with a gentle pat-pat-pat on his collar bone. "I guess we should get you warmed up, then, Frosty."

Walking hand-in-hand back to the dorm would be wonderful, but Liam stops himself from pushing. Instead, he gives the flask a shake, says, "This is mine, now," and bolts for the double doors.

"I'm fine," Marty protests as Liam tosses the scarf around his neck, but past that he doesn't put up a fuss. His nose and cheeks are too red to be convincing, and besides, the scarf is warm and smells nice. Rather than fight, he leans in when Liam uses the fabric to reel him in, and gives up the flask. "Mahasiah disagrees," Marty responds, "But you can warm me up any time you want." He waggles his eyebrows, just in case the innuendo wasn't clear.

It only takes Marty a second to register that they're racing again and to take off after Liam, laughing. It's a fairer race this time, but Liam still has a head start and longer legs. He can easily clear obstacles and take stairs two at a time, and though Marty hardly gets left in the dust, he can't ever close the gap. It's clear, though, that he didn't let him win, because when they stop, he's panting again, resting a hand on the wall to catch his breath. He may like Liam, but he has never let anyone beat him at anything without a fight. "Shit. Next time," he vows between breaths.

"Yeah, yeah, you keep training, buddy." Liam replies with a wide grin. He makes a show of bending and stretching his legs, like that was nothing - but he's breathless, too, wheezing softly each time his lungs expand. He leans himself against the wall and retrieves his inhaler. Shake, shake, click. Then he's quiet for a few seconds, pocketing it once again and unzipping his coat.

Even if their sprint was momentarily invigorating, Liam can't help but yawn now that they're indoors. He glances over his shoulder, toward the familiar Junior Wands dorm room, then looks back, sliding closer to Marty. He smiles. It's hard not to, Marty wrapped up in his scarf like that. Something about it makes him relax, and suddenly aware of just how exhausted he is. "Let's go get warmed up, then."

"I will, and I'll win my flask back," he says, pointing at Liam in challenge. They hadn't actually agreed on it as a prize, but Marty likes the idea of that back-and-forth, so he's willing to sacrifice it. After a moment, he nods to the inhaler as he slips it away and asks, "Are you okay?"

Liam yawns, and though Marty is ready to say goodnight, he's plainly pleased when he doesn't have to. "Thought you'd never ask." He grabs Liam's hand, his own still tingling with cold, and flashes a pink cheeked grin as he tugs him backwards towards his down door. He manages to open the door without looking, but turns when they enter. The candle is still burning unattended on his desk, filling the room with dim gold light and apple-mahogany scent. He does have to let go of the other boy's hand to kick off his shoes and toss his coat and Liam's scarf over his chair.

Somewhere between being temporarily awarded Marty's flask and being asked if he's okay, Liam slips back into that soft, greased-lens perception of the world. His heart's still beating fast, but not from the run. And he only blinks out of his haze when Marty takes his hand. At which point he also realizes he's chewing on his lower lip. "Oh," he scoffs, dismissive. "Cold air, late nights, running and asthma just don't mix. It's fine." He allows himself to be led to the familiar dorm room and peels himself out of his coat and Converses as though this were any ordinary meet-up. The candle he only notices once he's set his things aside.

"Oh my God," Liam turns an incredulous grin on Marty, slipping back into his personal space, pressing his still chilly fingers to Marty's equally cold face to try and create some warmth. "You left a fucking lit candle." There's little to do but laugh about it, and he does, as he kisses Marty's lips. Once. "You dingus." Twice. A third time, each one of them cut with laughter and a wide, fond grin. At least the candle's attended, now.

Edited (gross and bad sorry) 2019-02-12 20:02 (UTC)

"What?" Marty says, following his gaze to the candle. "I was in a hurry, someone challenged me to a race." He's not bothered, though. Dingus is hardly the worst thing that he's been called, so he laughs and kisses Liam back. He rests his hands on Liam's waist, tugging him along as he backs towards the ladder to his bunk. Luckily, his share of the room is clean, even if it is an under-the-rug cleanliness. Don't open any drawers, but at least the floor is clear. Then, suddenly he stops. "Do I need to put it out?" he asks. "The candle. 'Cause of your asthma."

It's such a silly little question, but it catches Liam off guard - that he'd thought to ask at all, and so naturally. He ducks his head, a bashful sigh of laughter escaping him. When he turns his chin back up to look at Marty, again, there's a wrinkle to the corners of his eyes. "You know, it should be fine, but..." Liam slips out of Marty's arms and disappears beneath the bed, himself, licking his thumb and forefinger and then snuffing the light out between them. He pops back out, returning to where he was, and rests his hand heavily on a ladder rung. "Just in case. Now, where were we. Up and away?"

Marty catches the expression, the little laugh, but doesn't understand it. Did he embarrass him by asking? But then, he doesn't seem upset, and he does put it out, so maybe it was the right thing to ask. Showing concern for other people is so complicated.

"Up up and away!" he agrees, a playful grin returning to his face. "After you," he says, then gestures, gentlemanly. This is quickly revealed to be a ruse, however, because once Liam is halfway up, Marty uses it as a chance to smack Liam on the butt and say, "Hurry up, slow poke!"

Edited (forever bad) 2019-02-13 01:58 (UTC)

Liam yelps, loops his arm around the left rail and swings to the side, mischief in his eyes as he tries to swipe his arm at Marty in retaliation. Clearly, the bed was not built for the swashbuckling antics of a 6'1" idiot, because it rattles precariously under his flailing. He freezes, clinging to the bed, eyes wide. A low, startled cackle rushes out of him, he catches it in the palm of his hand before returning to his brief ascent with considerably more care.

Once he's up top, he immediately moves to drape himself back over the side, again. As soon as Marty's in reach, he grasps for him, running his hands up and down the other boy's arms. "Pick up the pace, Ice Man." Ostensibly, he's trying to warm Marty up - actually, his intent is just making the journey more difficult. "I'm cold."

Marty cackles unabashedly when he gets the response he was hoping for, and only laughs harder when the bed wobbles under Liam's retaliation. Maybe he should worry about his bed being reduced to rubble, but the thought of Neal and Noah's expressions once they came back and saw the state of the room would more than make up for it. "You'd think Gladstone could have sprung for a little better than Ikea," he says to Liam's back as he makes his way cautiously up the ladder. He follows right behind, swatting at Liam's hands with one of his while he climbs the ladder with the other. He considers falling off the ladder just for show, but if they make too much noise, one of the rooms on either side might come complaining. "Then scoot the hell over and make room."

"He's saving the money for that big payout you're going to ask him for," Liam deadpans, wriggling away to let Marty up. Once he's there with Liam, the bed's inadequate size becomes immediately apparent. Amid a cacophony of creaking mattress and bedframe and springs, Liam squirms, trying to find a place to put his arms, eventually settling for tucking one under his head and draping the other over Marty's arm. It occurs to him, then, that he's never done this before. Making out, fooling around, other things? Yeah, sure. In fumbling, frantic moments of stolen privacy in cars or closets or empty back hallways. But never this. And never somewhere soft and warm and safe. Never with someone who makes him feel soft and warm and safe. (He refuses to unpack the fact that Marty makes him feel that way.)

Liam's heart jumps into his throat again, heat spreading across his cheeks. To hide it, he presses close to Marty. "Much warmer," he mumbles against Marty's chest. He's joking, but it's undeniably nice. "Are you comfortable? Need me to move?"

"Keep joking, but he owes us," Marty insists as he tries to position himself on his bed. The Finchwood bunks aren't an ideal place to makeout at the best of times, close enough to the ceiling to risk smacking your head if you aren't careful, but put two tall boys together and it's even more precarious. Someone is at risk of getting kneed or falling off the bed until they finally settle. "Finally. No thanks to you, throwing snow on me. I'm weak to cold, you know." Marty mirrors Liam, with one arm tucked under his head, and he wraps the other around Liam's waist, pulling him close. "I'm comfortable," he says, into Liam's curls. And, he is. The room is dim, lit only by a lamp now that the candle is out, and they are warm and close. It is undeniably nice.

"Mm, don't tell me your weaknesses. I'll exploit them." Liam says, voice gone quiet, his body aching but finally relaxed and thoughts starting to feel a bit like spun taffy. They came here for a reason, but here, in Marty's bed, the horrors of the Shadow World can't find Liam, and the gentle rise and fall of Marty's chest is so peaceful. There's no harm in laying still for a few seconds, listening to the rhythm of Marty's breathing - feeling safe.

Without looking, Liam brings a hand up and runs his fingers over Marty's cheek and jaw, exploring the sharp lines of his face. "I am, too." He admits. "Weak to ice. I..." Liam doesn't finish his thought. His touch goes heavy as he drifts off to sleep.

The beginning of that sentence hangs in the air, an unfinished thought, and Marty listens for a moment. All he hears is Liam's slow and even breathing. Marty laughs softly, just a couple of quick exhalations through his nose. Maybe he should be offended that he isn't exciting enough to stay awake for, but he's just glad Liam found some peace. For once, he doesn't even wish he had a Sharpie on hand. Instead, he hooks his foot under the blankets and bends his knee, slow and careful, to pull them high enough to reach with his hand, then just as slowly pulls them the rest of the way up. Liam stirs a little, but doesn't wake, so Marty nuzzles back in, arm winding around his waist and cheek pressing against his curls. It only takes a few minutes before he falls asleep too.

IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam

Marty & Liam