(no subject)

[unironickylorenfan]

Who: Marty & Liam
When: Spring Break
Where: Around Pgh
What: A few scenes from spring break. Garbage boys have a fight, visit a castle, take a nap.
Warnings: Mostly it's sappy.

Once he's done fussing with his hair (and it sure does take a while, Liam's meticulous with each curl), Liam flops down on his bed diagonally, letting his legs hang off the side, but draping most of himself over Marty like he's a particularly comfortable pillow. This sort of assured privacy is a rare luxury, and moments alone haven't lost their novelty, yet. Liam could easily lay like this all day, ear pressed to Marty's chest, listening to his heartbeat. But they've bummed around enough.

"So, I was thinking," he says, pulling out his phone when it vibrates in his pocket and firing off several rapidfire texts. "We should hit up Pitt campus today. It's sightsee-y shit, but I wanna get Pamela's and there's this crepe place, too." He pauses and tilts his chin up to look Marty in the eye. "And there's the—well, it's like a giant tower that's also a castle."

"Sure, it’s whatev. Wait." Marty lifts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes in Liam’s direction. "Are you trying to use food to trick me to do something educational?"

Liam scoffs, thoroughly offended, or at least pretending to be. "Why would I ever do that?" The grin on his face gives him away, though, and he knows it. Angling his gaze back down, he picks some invisible lint off of Marty's t-shirt. "Actually," he hazards quietly, sounding almost embarrassed. "It's that the Cathedral of Learning looks like Hogwarts on the inside…"

Marty groans, letting his head flop back on Liam’s pillow. "You’re trying to get me to do nerd shit!" he accuses, as if this is an unforgivable crime.

Liam rolls his eyes, and then rolls himself onto his stomach. He props his chin up on Marty's chest and stares at him expectantly. "Well," he asks, all overdone impatience, as though this isn't part of the fun. "Will you?"

At that, Marty breathes in deeply, so he can give a truly put upon sigh that makes Liam’s head noticeably rise and fall. "Better be real fucking good crepes," he says finally. "And you’re buying."

Liam's smile ticks up sharply at the corners, teeth pressing down on his lower lip in the middle. "First of all when the hell have you ever had a bad crepe, Chef Martehn? Second," he lifts himself up and climbs closer. Further up the bed but still half-melting off its side (the boy is too much leg), he drops back down and plants a kiss where he lands, aiming for his boyfriend's face and catching his chin, mostly. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Don’t mention it," Marty says, waving a hand dismissively. "So long as you’re feeding me, I’ll do just about whatever."

It's hard for Liam to fathom why Marty puts up with him, but he's not about to question it. He presses his face into the warm crook of the other boy's neck, lips brushing the skin there, too. Case in point re: not being worth the trouble, he seriously considers tickling Marty, but opts for pushing his luck in other ways, instead. "So, you're gonna wear Gryffindor colors, right?"

The kisses against his throat make Marty consider whether he can distract Liam from this nerdy adventure for a little while, but then he brings up the house debate again, the nerdiest argument Marty has ever had with any other human. He rolls right out from under Liam, onto his stomach on the far side of the bed. With his face muffled in the pillow he groans, "Li-uummmm."

He can't help but cackle in response to that reaction, loud and delighted. "What'samatter, big baby." Liam teases, goading Marty with a vigorous shake of his arm. "You afraid to dress a little nerdy in public?"

In response, Marty remains utterly catatonic, face down on the bed.

Still giggling, Liam shoves himself up to his feet and pulls a green and gray scarf off one of the hooks on his closet door. "I'm going to wear my house colors."

"Bullshit," Marty snaps, and the speed from which he goes from corpse to attack mode is impressive. He grabs the other end of the green and gray scarf and yanks it towards him. "If I gotta wear nerd shit I wanna be a bad boy wizard."

Liam's eyes widen, startled by Marty's sudden advance, but unintimidated. "Oh no." He protests, planting his feet. "You can look like a bad boy in other colors." Like a dog unwilling to let go of its toy, he wraps his end of the scarf around his fist and pulls back.

"Come onnn," Marty coos, but it’s through gritted teeth. Seldom does he get what he wants by asking nicely. He’d rather fight for it like a bone, so he mirrors Liam’s stance, feet dug in and scarf wrapped around his knuckles.

"Nooo way." Marty's stronger, but unfortunately that only makes Liam more hellbent on winning this little game of tug-of-war. His eyes narrow with playful determination, stubbornly refusing to allow any slack. He braces his grip with his other hand and gives another pull. He doesn't notice the knitted fabric pulling too taut. "I'm already buying you crepes!"

"We agreed on that before you told me we were cosplaying!"

Marty doesn’t give an inch. Instead, he pivots, yanking back with all his might. Liam holds fast, leaning back hard when he senses Marty's about to wrench him forward. And for their efforts, the scarf snaps. There’s no satisfying rrrrip sound - once it gives, it’s almost instantaneously split in two. Marty stumbles backwards and lands on his ass, holding one half of a Slytherin scarf. Liam reels into his dresser with a gasp. It rattles beneath him as he catches himself to keep from falling.

He shakes his head, looking at Marty first. And, okay, he's fine. Then his gaze shoots up—focused for a couple of seconds, listening for any reaction from his parents. Nothing there. Finally, he rights himself and unwinds the remains of his scarf from his hand. Green yarn stretched and torn, frayed at the ends into thin fibers. Liam's brow furrows and then his expression falls, eyes sad, like he can't decide if he wants to be angry or hurt or something else.

It's a stupid thing to be upset over, his head tells him. It's just a scarf. And it's partly his fault, anyway. If he wasn't always pushing Marty into things he didn't want to do, this wouldn't have happened. Really, when you get down to it, it's all his own fault. Liam huffs, trying to shut out his own brain. It doesn't work. So he latches onto the only feeling he can find in the mess, and snaps, "What the hell, dude?"

Marty’s first instinct is to laugh in the face of destruction, but Liam’s sad brown puppy eyes cut that short after only a couple of amused snorts. "What? Flimsy scarf," he says as he pushes himself to his feet, because his second instinct is to act like it isn’t his fault at all.

"That's what you're going to go with?" Surprise flashes on Liam's face before it becomes a scowl, anger bubbling to a steady simmer at Marty's flippant dismissal. "You didn't have to—" Neither one of them had to do what they did. He didn't have to push. He could've let go of the scarf. Each time Liam tries to take hold of his ire, it slips through his fingers. There's no way, nowhere, to direct it. It's just there, making him feel queasy. "Fuck it. Whatever. It wasn't a flimsy scarf." He wads it up and pitches it with more force than is strictly necessary into the trash can across the room, then turns away to fuss with nothing in his closet.

Marty watches Liam with his jaws tensed. He’s not going to say sorry. He doesn’t say sorry. And, for the record, even if he did, he’s not anyway, because he definitely didn’t tear Liam’s dumb nerd scarf in half on his own. It does surprise him, though, that there’s a slimy knot in the pit of his stomach at the way Liam won’t look at him.

He stands, scowling for a few minutes, thinking. He walks past Liam to fish the other half of the scarf out of the trash, then turns to sit down on the bed with it, brows furrowed in thought. He doesn’t know how to sew, really. He could probably figure it out, but he doesn’t have a needle and thread anyway. On the other hand, he knows a lot about how things burn. It’s some kind of synthetic yarn, basically plastic, and plastic melts.

Up to this point, Liam's done his damnedest to focus on whatever it is he's doing in the closet, which is nothing, really; just straightening the lines of hanging shirts and reordering things based on their color. Mindless work, to help with ignoring Marty and trying to sort through his stormy emotions. But, then, fire complicates that.

Marty takes his lighter out of his pocket, holding the two torn ends together with one hand, and flicking the lighter with the other, close enough for the flame to heat the acrylic yarn without actually catching fire. Liam whips around at the sound of a sparkwheel. First confusion, then horror cross his face and he nearly trips over himself trying to get to Marty to slap the lighter out of his hands. "What in the fuck are—" It's utterly unbelievable that Marty would do what it looks like he's doing—would hurt him in such a bizarrely wicked, destructive way. That's probably why Liam hesitates, hangs. Marty wouldn't hurt him. Not on purpose. And that few second delay gives him enough time to see Marty's trying to do. Not burning, but binding. Mending, not destroying. Moving the flame across the tear while pinching it, he’s able to melt the torn halves back together.

Liam blinks, mouth agape.

Standing wordlessly, Marty grasps each end of the scarf and gives it a tug. It’s not pretty, and it has filled the room with the stink of hot plastic, but it’s technically fixed. That’s all he can do, so he shrugs, walks across the room, and puts the scarf back on the hook Liam had retrieved it from. Next to it is a yellow and black bumblebee-like scarf, and Marty grabs that one, tossing it around his neck. "Are we still going or not?" He flips one end of the scarf over his shoulder and shoves his hands in his pockets.

Liam wants to be angry, wants to grasp the heat and the snarl of discomfort in his stomach and hang onto them. But it's all too slippery. And here's Marty, fixing what they've broken, ready to get back to it, pulling on another nerdy scarf without complaint. He looks dashing in Hufflepuff colors. Somehow, it’s fitting, like Cedric Diggory if he were a total asshole.

And Liam finds himself completely disarmed. The hurt lingers, but the anger sputters, strangled and elbowed out by a warm, settled sort of sensation. Not quite a happy feeling—more like surety. Marty would never hurt him intentionally; he knows it. His gigantic puppy. His Hufflepuff. Liam sighs—he can't be angry, but he can still be irritated—and approaches Marty, fishing one of his hands out of his pockets. "Yeah." He says, bringing Marty's fingers to his lips and pressing a kiss gently to his knuckles. "Let's go. I'm starving."

Marty doesn't exactly smile, but the tension leaves his jaws, his eyebrows smooth, and one corner of his mouth tips up just a little. "Me too." He takes the Slytherin scarf from the hook and tosses it over Liam's head, crosses it over his clavicle, and loops it through just so that it covers the sloppy mend. It still smells a little like a pool toy left too long in direct sunlight, but that will hopefully dissipate.

---

It's too cold for late March, but at least the sun is warm. Liam downs the last of his coffee so that he can toss the cup into a recycling bin as they pass it. The Cathedral of Learning looms, massive, over the windswept quad. It's strange blend of Gothic Revival and Art Deco architecture, and the way it rises, monolithic, always used to remind Liam of Ghostbusters. Now, looking at it, its strangeness reminds him of the Shadow World. He doesn't like that association one bit, and hurries to distract his brain with the first thing that comes to mind.

"I don't know if I'll go here after." He says, squinting at Marty. "Like, it'll be cheap, because my mom works here? But, my mom works here. So."

"You can go anywhere you want," Marty says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Benefits of going to special school. And even if we didn’t, bet you’d get scholarships or whatever. You’re smart."

"Mm," Liam nods, though without much confidence. His head has a way of posing enough What Ifs to make him doubt just about everything all of the time, and nothing more than his own future.

As they scale the steps to the entrance, he stares at their feet. "You ever wonder what Gladstone's resources are really like? Ninety-six favors is a lot of favors to grant."

"Ninety-six combat trained teens is a lot to piss off, too, so he better have that cheddar," Marty counters, "Unless he was always planning on wiping most of our memories once we get the job done." He’s joking, mostly. "Just make sure you’re at the front of the line so you don’t end up scrounging for scraps."

"And you're going to be in the number one spot, gettin' that bread, huh?" Liam asks, teasing only because it keeps him from thinking too much about that leviathan horror, the potential memory wipe. At the massive wooden doors, he pauses. "Maybe I'll ask him to send me to wizard school."

The doors are as heavy as they look, but no problem for Liam to open. Stepping inside is like passing through a portal in time, right into the Middle Ages. A great hall, dimly lit, with soaring vaulted ceilings, all gray stonework. The few scattered wooden tables where students sit and study or chat quietly truly make it seem like Hogwarts castle's great hall.

Liam's been in here a hundred times, but he still takes a few seconds to stare straight up. Then, he knocks against Marty, voice dropping to a whisper. "The fortieth floor technically isn't open to the public. So, I figured we could sneak up there."

Marty lets Liam have his moment. It’s a cool old building, sure, but he has never dreamed of getting his Hogwarts letter. Then it becomes an adventure, and he turns to Liam with a fond grin. "Not worried about getting kicked out of wizard school?"

"Oh, you're right." Liam's grin pulls up high on one side. He unpockets his phone and drapes his arm around Marty's shoulder to pull him close. "I should get some pictures for posterity." Liam pauses, holding his camera up and framing the shot for a selfie. "And photographic evidence that you're my Hufflepuff." This argument will never get old, as far as Liam is concerned.

Marty will never turn down a selfie, even if he is wearing the ugliest scarf ever. Instead, he just pulls a terrible face, eyes rolling and tongue lolling out. "Aight you got your picture, asshole, now let’s go exploring."

He prods Marty softly in the side in response, then darts off ahead. Even Liam's laughter stifled echoes slightly through the commons, and he has to remind himself that a college classroom building probably isn't a great place for two high schoolers to play tag. He slows, turning to walk backward so he can face Marty. "You wanna take the stairs all the way up, or...?"

Marty is already bolting after Liam without question, and has to skid to a halt when he stops. "Well, we been lazy bums, we could use a workout," he replies, grinning. "Wouldn’t want you to have an asthma attack, though."

"It should be fine. We just won't race up." Liam says, hands out to catch Marty's shoulders as he slips across the floor toward him. Even if it's sort of joking, he tries not to let himself seem too affected by Marty’s off-handed concern. Keep his voice from going soft, stop his gaze from getting too doe-eyed and moony. Overall, he doesn't do a very good job, and he glances over his shoulder to hide the way his smile pulls wide, sweet and supple like melting candy.

Running off to one of the nationality rooms for some privacy seems suddenly appealing. (Maybe the English room, and they can call it a snog.) But, no, they've got to stay on track. "You can carry me if I asphyxiate. C'mon, hero. Stairs are this way."

"I wouldn’t mind, you can’t be that heavy," Marty says, then lifts his arms to flex. Liam will just have to imagine the effect, because the sweater he’s wearing doesn’t show off any muscle definition, despite being at least a size too small. He hadn’t brought any cold weather clothing, so Marty has been wearing Liam’s shirts for most of break.

Liam dips his chin to better stare Marty down. Just a second or two of eyeing him over his glasses. It’s a judgmental look, to be sure—smile pressed wide and one eyebrow up—but that doesn’t mean that Marty is anything other than striking in charcoal cable knit. Even if the knitting does make the faint outline of a skull. He still looks good. He always looks good, as he likes to say. And, ignoring all that, there’s something deeply and undeniably satisfying about seeing his boyfriend wearing his clothes.

"Have I mentioned that I love the new buff Mr. Rogers reboot?" He teases, giving Marty's arm a squeeze. "Fred's here to teach you about sharing, caring and sick delts."

"Hell yeah, I’d go to sleep watching that shit," Marty says. Without warning, he ducks to calmly scoop Liam up and over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry. Maybe he’s trying to preemptively prevent that asthma attack, maybe he’s trying to prove he’s at least a buff Hufflepuff jock or, more likely, he’s just being an asshole.

A rough transliteration of the sound Liam makes when Marty hauls him up and over his shoulder is, "Gak!" It's a guttural sound, clipped and half-breathed into the space between Marty's shoulder blades as Liam squirms against captivity. He refuses — refuses!!! — to give Marty the satisfaction of hearing him titter or shriek. (Even if he wants to.)

"What is this, King Kong?" He complains, instead. In a bid for freedom, stunning in its lack of foresight, Liam grabs for the ticklish spot beneath Marty's ribs.

Marty thumps his chest a couple of times with his free hand, taking the stairs at a leisurely pace, as if this is a totally normal thing to do. He doesn’t anticipate retaliation, at least not of the tickling variety, so it catches him off guard. Liam can feel the spasm that shoots through Marty’s body like he’s been electrocuted, and his boyfriend does make an undignified sound. Carrying Liam, he’s top heavy, and for a moment he wobbles, close to topping backwards down a flight of stairs. Liam's eyes go wide. He has enough time to think, well, this is a stupid fucking way to die, and subsequently decide he has no regrets. Then Marty manages to grab the railing and yank them both forward, tumbling harmlessly to the second floor landing.

Liam's senses return to him with a bright pop of laughter, a fissure in a dam. Once the first loud "Ha!" is out, a deluge of giggles follow. He sits up and scoots over to Marty, hands on him as soon as they're close enough. Fingers move from his arms to his shoulders to his face, a light touch, making sure he didn't somehow break into pieces. "Oh my God. Are you alright?" He asks, still laughing. "I'm sorry. It's not funny."

For a second, Marty just blinks up at him. But the words it’s not funny send him into his own bright peals of laughter, too loud for the setting. There’s nothing that can’t be funny, not even near death. "You fuck," Marty replies, sitting up and socking Liam in the shoulder.

"It's your own damn fault for being so—" Liam's laughter hikes up when Marty punches him. He snorts, which only makes it worse. At this point, there's no hope of recovery. All he can do is laugh into his hands, trying to muffle the sound. "You're so fuckin’ ticklish." He starts to cough. "It's the most adorable thing I've ever seen in my life. And here we go, shit. Hold on."

Undaunted by his coughing and still shaking off the last bits of laughter, Liam fumbles for his inhaler. Before clicking a dose into his mouth, he fights against more coughing to put on an ornery grin and ask, "You know what they say about people who're ticklish?"

"It’s not my fault, ass. Shoulda never let you find out." He says, as if the knowledge of how ticklish he was had been a gift he’d bestowed upon Liam on purpose. He scoots closer, arching one incredulous eyebrow. "No. What do they say?"

It's hard not to laugh even more at that rebuttal, and Liam has to shut his eyes tight to focus on giving his lungs a couple of seconds to just, like, chill out for God's sake. He's quiet, lips pressed tight to keep from snickering. The urge to cough starts to subside, and Liam opens his eyes again.

"They say..." His voice is still a little raspy, so he clears his throat. Forgetting for the moment that an empty stairwell does not mean they aren't out in a public place, Liam fixes a stray wisp of Marty's hair. He looks, at first, like any besotted teen, gazing soft-eyed at his boyfriend. But his smile soon pulls wide, bent up very high on one side. (Because in addition to being a besotted teen, he's also a shithead.) "It means you feel vulnerable."

Marty snorts and rolls his eyes. But then he leans in close, mouth right beside Liam’s ear, and says in a husky whisper, "What makes you think I’d feel vulnerable?"

His breath makes Liam's skin prickle, shoulders and arms turning to goosebumps. Liam almost shivers. It had been a joke, but like so many of Liam's jokes, he hadn't prepared for it to be turned around on him. He hadn't intended to give it any serious thought. The more logical half of his brain complains about what an easy mark he is, but that sound is quiet. It's quickly drowned out by something heavy and warm, rolling in like a summer storm.

He brings a hand down to rest on Marty's leg. "Well," Liam says after a soft exhale of air. He doesn't move at first, just watches Marty as best he can out of the corner of his eye. "Maybe because you—because you want me to—because‐" Head a haze, Liam's words fail him. He's already drifted so close to Marty, turned his head by millimeters, so he closes the distance, pressing his lips against Marty's jaw and then his neck.

There is a time and a place for making out, and this is neither, but propriety has never been high on Marty’s list of concerns. He could stop this, with the satisfaction that he one-upped Liam, or he could suggest that they move somewhere more private, but he doesn’t. Instead he lifts his hand to Liam’s face and tilts his chin up so he can kiss him properly.

Liam smiles against Marty's lips, and when he opens his mouth, that familiar involuntary hum slips out; extract of happiness. He edges closer, careful not to break contact while moving to meet all of Marty's lines with his own. His hands slowly find comfortable resting places, one gripping the fabric of Marty's shirt (his shirt) to keep him reeled in, the other sliding fingertips over his cheek, his ear and into his hair.

Every kiss with Marty is the best kiss Liam's ever had, but this impromptu nearly-public make out leaves him positively dizzy. He should take the initiative to shuffle them both off to somewhere more private, but that hardly seems pressing. Here he is, in his own version of Hogwarts castle, kissing his loyal, kind-hearted boyfriend—his partner in crime. Marty didn't have to agree to coming here. He didn't have to wear a Hufflepuff scarf or mend the one they'd torn. Hell, Marty didn't need to scrimp and save to travel seven hundred miles just to see him. But he did do all of those things. So, maybe it makes sense if he feels a little vulnerable. Liam certainly does.

Breathless again, Liam slows. He knows Marty doesn't care for words, but the feeling's going to eat him alive if he doesn't say it out loud. And he resists, pressing another firm kiss to Marty's lips to try and silence himself, but it slips out. "I love you, Marty."

Marty is quiet for a moment in response, expression screwed up in thought. It doesn't surprise him that Liam said it. What really surprises him is the way he feels in response — or, more accurately, the way he doesn't. No discomfort or fear, no heavy wish that he hadn't done it settling into his stomach, no desperate need to escape.

He flashes a charming grin and responds, "I know." Even if Liam says he's more Indiana Jones, Marty is sure that Han Solo had the cooler response to I love you. But then his expression softens, the performative cockiness vanishing from his smile, leaving behind something uncommonly sincere. "Me too." That's not quite right. Marty doesn't put much stock in words. It's too easy for people to say things without backing them up with actions, too easy to be misinterpreted even if you try to say what you mean. But they matter to Liam, so he tries again. "I love you, I mean." He shrugs one shoulder, nonchalant, because it was already obvious, wasn't it?

"Yeah you do," Liam teases, but lacking his usual edge. It's hard to be a smartass in the face of the nicest sound you've ever heard. Marty loves him, of course he does, but Liam's ears, his body, his bones still buzz with it. "You've been showing me you do every day for— for a long time."

The sweetness of Marty's smile is so strange and wonderful that Liam finds himself needing to touch it. It's a weird urge, but he indulges, running his thumb over Marty's lower lip and laughing, sheepish. That smile is for him. A treasure. He lists his head to the side, gaze flicking down and then back up. He's almost too embarrassed to ask, but, "Will you say it again?"

"You gonna almost make me fall down the stairs, then try to ask for stuff?" Marty teases. It's too much for both of them to say these kinds of things without joking at least a little bit. He bumps his forehead against the other boy's, a bit too hard to be strictly affectionate, and says, "I love you, Liam."

Liam's smile positively glows in response. It really is the best thing he's ever heard, somehow both heady and light. He brushes his nose against Marty's, lighting his fingers on the sides of his boyfriend's face. "You spoil me." He admits.

But, whatever he's about to do is interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. Liam opens his eyes and, as blank-faced as he can, peers up at the interloper, an adjunct professor, if he had to guess. Without otherwise acknowledging the person standing over them, he directs his attention back to Marty, grin cracking wide. "Wanna get those crepes?"

Marty turns his head and winks at their interrupter, flashing that familiar mischievous grin. Then he stands, holding out a hand to pull Liam to his feet. “Don’t forget you’re buying.”

Liam grasps Marty's hand and hops up. He doesn't let go of his fingers once he's standing, tossing one last glance over his shoulder at the professor giving them the stink eye. "Right, right. But...what if we raced for it?"

---

When Rachel Blumenthal enters the living room, she is met with a pile of tangled, teenage boy on her couch. Apparently, Liam and Marty had petered out during an attempted all night movie marathon, because Netflix's question - Are you still watching? - goes unanswered on the television screen.

Marty is at least halfway off of the couch, one arm and one leg dragging the carpet. The only thing keeping him from sliding off completely is one of Liam's long legs hooked over his hip. He might also have his other arm pinned beneath him, but it's difficult to tell. What's not difficult to see is that Liam has his cheek against the back of Marty's head, mouth slightly agape, drooling just a bit. Apparently it's not uncomfortable, because Marty continues to snore softly, oblivious.

Rachel exhales softly through her nose, the sound part-way to a laugh. It's hard for her to recall that last time her kid didn't seem like a man returned from war. There's no cloud over his head. No weight on his shoulders. For once, Liam looks just like what he is: a boy. Marty, too. She wonders if Marty's parents see in their son what she sees in her own. If it frightens them, too.

It'd be a crime to disturb either one of them, and the baby in her belly seems to agree. "Alright, Peanut," Rachel whispers to her stomach, wincing when she feels the morning calisthenics begin. Instead of shaking them awake, as she’d intended, she scoops up the remote and shuts off the tv, then the table lamp near Liam's foot.

Liam doesn't wake, but stirs just enough to snort and then snake his arm around Marty's torso to pull him close.

Comments

[coalblooded]

We wrote too many words

[unironickylorenfan]

[survivalof]

I have to tell myself this constantly or I'd never post anything