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May. 15th, 2019 09:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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finchwoodacademyWHO: Liam and Marty
WHAT: A post-prom adventure.
WHEN: After Prom
WHERE: At the edge of campus
WARNING: Language, PG-13 makin' out, ??13 pages of generally embarrassing??
Tracking down an adequate clearing isn't hard; there are half a dozen places to pitch a tent just beyond the tree line surrounding campus. Avoiding discovery is the name of the game tonight, though, and that takes a bit more hiking. As they walk deeper into the woods, Liam wonders whether this is a normal way to spend After Prom. Not that it matters, really. Normal or no, it's fun, and Liam would be lying if he said this hadn't been the part of the night he was looking forward to most: alone time (and, more importantly, mischief) with his favorite person.
The perfect spot presents itself just before Liam gets the urge to complain about how long they've been walking, a grassy opening flanked by shrubs and a budding sapling. He claims the space by abruptly dropping the bundled tent tucked under his arm. His half of the snacks he sets down with more care, and as soon as his hands are free, he grabs Marty's palm, giving it a squeeze. It's a chilly spring night, so, "You wanna get the fire started?" That seems right up Marty's alley. "Make a pit for it with rocks while we clear a space for the tent."
Marty drops his book bag — which rarely contains books — down beside Liam's. It's dark, and they only have small flashlights to avoid being spotted, so Marty doesn't see Liam reaching for him until he already has his hand. He uses it to yank Liam towards him. "Oh, I'll get a fire started alright," he replies, tone suggestive, even if his innuendo doesn't completely make sense.
Liam's free hand immediately finds Marty's lips, stopping any further advance and illuminating both their faces with the pen light between his fingers. It takes him a second longer than it should to respond, scrutinizing Marty with an expression that's part scowl, like he might actually be thinking about going for it. To his credit, Marty resists the urge to bite Liam’s hand.
"Literal fire, Casanova. I'm not sleeping on dirt and rocks in the cold." Logic wins out, and Liam gently shoves Marty away with a laugh. He turns away, getting to the work of clearing their tent space, but is turning his grin back to Marty before long, "I like that energy, though."
"Ooooh," Marty says, playfully dumb, as if he didn’t know. "Fine, fine. Someone’s got to be a picky prince. This ain’t glamping, you know." But, he sets up a pit and starts gathering up limbs and sticks. He’s slept on dirt and rocks in the cold before, and truth be told, he’s not much of a fan either. It doesn’t take him long poking around the periphery of their chosen campsite to gather enough wood to get a fire started, and he squats down in the center to arrange it. For kindling, he pulls several wadded up papers from the front pocket of his backpack. They look suspiciously like graded papers, but there’s not much chance to see before they’re meeting their demise.
Glancing up, Liam manages to catch the markers of school assignments just before they're torched. He quirks his head to the side, puppyish and frowning. Starting an argument is not what he wants to be doing right now, but resisting the urge proves difficult. For a few seconds, he succeeds, tossing some inconveniently large branches into the darkness, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth shut. There's no helping it, though, and as he returns to the bundled tent parts to separate them out, he inquires: "Math or English?"
Marty grins and shrugs one shoulder. Liam doesn’t miss much, so it’s no surprise that he spotted him lighting up school work. "Math, I think. Didn’t really look." He pokes at the little flame, feeding it twigs to encourage it to grow.
"Hm." Liam spreads out the tent groundsheet, and it seems like he's not going to push the topic further than that. He selects a spoke and threads it through the frame, and then another, brow knit in consternation, though not from tent assembly.
He points the pole in his hand in Marty's direction. "You could've probably used those to study, later, you know."
Marty swats the pole away. "If I was gonna study, wouldn’t do me any good to study a bunch of red X’s, would it? Do more good to study something with a couple right answers on it." He tosses a couple more branches on top of the fire, watches for a few minutes while they catch, then moves over to stand beside Liam. He picks up a pole, turns it this way and that, then slots it into a connector.
Schoolwork is hardly a romantic topic and Liam knows it, so he puts his attention on carefully leading the tent pole through the nylon tent canopy, instead. It's tedious work. Everything wants to snag on everything else, and Liam's jaw works as he fusses with it. The silence, naturally, lasts only about ten seconds.
"You redo the red X's 'til they're right and they make sense." He says, looking up from his half of the tent. He's not sure if Marty knows what he's doing, but, then, he certainly has to know more than Liam, whose entire camping knowledge base comes from skimming the Assembling A Tent WikiHow article two days ago. He has no room to talk, here. And, anyway, there's something nice about watching Marty work. Impulsively, Liam bumps against him. "Guess we'll need to spend some more time studying." The way he says the word 'studying' makes it sound like he does not, in fact, mean the dictionary definition of studying.
Marty groans, letting his head flop backwards. Even the emphasis on the word studying doesn’t wholly appease him, because he knows Liam is also going to make him study in the dictionary definition way too. "They don’t ever make sense," he says. He whaps Liam’s arm with the pole in his hand, which sends the connector flying off into the grass. Whoops.
"Nice." Liam snorts, gaining some measure of joy from the instant retribution— even if it is misfortune for both of them. Marty pulls out his flashlight again as he moves off to that side, sweeping it back and forth to look for the part. Liam watches him pick through the grass a few paces off, deciding almost immediately to be a smartass. "Practice makes perfect."
A little rubber cap comes off the end of the spoke in Liam's hand. It's probably not a vital piece of equipment, so he throws it at the back of Marty's head. It bounces off into the darkness, doomed to join the connector piece what Marty is never going to find, because suddenly he’s rounding on Liam. His expression is full of playful ferocity in the seconds before he tackles Liam to the ground.
They land hard. Liam wheezes out a laugh, dropping the partially-constructed tent and throwing his arms around Marty's trunk. He should worry about where the fire is, where the tent poles are. Instead, he's groping for the edge of Marty's underwear to try and give him a wedgie. Marty squirms, trying to grab Liam by the arms, wrists, anything to pin him.
"What're you even—" Liam shrieks and laughs, wriggling free every time Marty seems to have him held in place. When Marty finally manages to catch one of his hands, the other snakes under his shirt in search of that soft spot just beneath his ribs. For a moment, Marty thinks victory is imminent, but then Liam’s fingers dig into his sides. "Fuck!" he barks, collapsing on top of the other boy, jerking and trying to wiggle free, focused now on escape.
Marty may be on the retreat, but Liam isn't here for a surrender. No, he's going to pin him. Which is easier said than done, of course. Liam's laughter jumps up, high and loud. Amidst the flailing, he narrowly avoids a knee between the legs, but does catch an elbow in his gut that almost puts him out. He grunts, but refuses to relent, pitching his weight hard to one side.
It's quite the tussle, but Liam's still careful to cradle Marty's head as they roll over. Even in the midst of a wrestling match, he's worried about more serious injury. Once he's flipped the both of them, Liam stills, breathing heavily and curious to see if Marty will struggle.
Marty raises both hands, yielding. He’s panting, and still laughing breathily, so it takes him a couple of minutes before he can speak. "You win." He lets his hands fall over his head, grinning up at Liam, whose carefully styled curls are tousled and whose glasses are askew. Marty had thought his boyfriend was handsome at the dance, but he likes this look even better. "You’re such... a fucking shit," he says with with transparent affection. This is all so ridiculous, but it’s a mundane kind of ridiculousness. Normal teenage behavior, nothing supernatural or deadly. There was a time when he thought he could never be satisfied with ordinary again, but maybe he could get used to this after all.
There's a triumphant grin on Liam's face, the corners of his mouth tugged up just high enough to call it mischievous, too. For a few seconds, he just stares, hopelessly in love with the heavy rise and fall of Marty's chest, the way his smile reaches his eyes, that smudge of dirt across his chin. Out here, in the woods, in the dark, yours til I die or you find someone better feels like it really could mean forever.
"So're you," Liam mumbles. He scoops both of Marty's wrists up in his hand, presses them into the grass, and dips down to kiss him.
If it were anyone else, Marty couldn’t stand it, never being one to take defeat well. But seeing Liam grin like that, eyes shining with glee and firelight, is a fair consolation prize. Not that he would ever admit it. He huffs, determined to act put out by Liam’s gloating expression, but the sound catches in his throat when Liam kisses him. Not that he’s complaining. It’s an even better prize. Marty meets that kiss lazily. There’s no time constraint, no teachers to shoo them, and no roommates to consider. Nothing but stars overhead, time to waste, and each other’s company, and Marty means to enjoy it.
Liam hums, low and pleased, losing himself in the deliberate slowness of their kiss. Frantic is fun, but this is intoxicating. Before long, he's busying himself with kissing Marty's jaw, then a line down his neck. Each press of his lips to the other boy's skin tinged with greater intent. Tugging Marty's collar down with one finger, Liam pauses to linger at his clavicle. His thoughts come in fuzzy, but even with the details blurred, familiar worries are still there. Part of him wishes he could just shut his brain off entirely, and that's why Liam forces himself to slow down. To consider the fire, the chilly April air, the tent. He exhales, half-frustrated with his own need to be practical, and lifts his head to look Marty in the eye. His grin immediately goes crooked. "You can call me a prince, but I'm still not gonna sleep in the fuckin' dirt."
Marty knows that exasperated sigh, and when he opens his eyes, he immediately starts to laugh again. "Shit, dude." Marty’s not often one for practicality at the expense of instant gratification, but he knows that later, when it’s cold and they have a nylon roof over their heads, he’ll be grateful that Liam is. He sighs, lifting himself up enough to press a chaste, even sweet, kiss to Liam’s lips. "Then let’s build a fucking tent."
They may have their work cut out for them, but Liam still wastes a few more seconds savoring the softness of the moment. Every subtle hint of tenderness Marty shows him warms him deep in his core, and he finds himself desperate to capture it, make it last— not forever (he likes the wrestling and the teasing too much), but longer than an instant.
So it is with reluctance that he finally shoves himself off his boyfriend and crawls on all fours over to the discarded tent. Picking up a spike in one hand, he plops down into the dust. "I have a confession to make," Liam says, touching the point of the plastic spike with his finger. Ow. Yes. It is sharp. "I donno what the hell I'm doing."
Marty joins him, sitting cross legged in the dirt in front of what could, with some luck, eventually be a tent. For now, it’s a pile of parts. "Hell, I never know what I’m doing, but it usually works out for me," he replies with an encouraging grin. One of the skills he has mastered as a second is coming off like he’s making fun of you, but also genuinely believes in you at the same time.
It’s slow going, and more than once Marty considers resigning themselves to sleeping in the dirt whether Liam likes it or not. They have to employ some creative engineering, making use of a few sturdy sticks and the roll of duct tape that Marty brought in his backpack, but eventually, the tent is assembled. Technically, anyway. It sags a little bit in the middle, and one side had to be tied up to a tree branch with one of Liam's shoelaces to keep it from dipping further. It's certainly something.
Liam stands to get a better look at it all. He quirks his head to the side, examining the tent like it's an art installation, then turns his shittiest grin Marty's way. "Look at what we're capable of when we put our minds to something," he deadpans while his fingers idly twirl a lock of his boyfriend's hair.
Marty remains seated in a crouch, arms draped over his knees, eyeing their accomplishment with some skepticism and an abundance of amusement. He absentmindedly tilts his head into Liam’s hand, angling towards his touch like a dog trying to get the best scratches. "Nothing to write home about, but I guess it’ll do. Now." He pushes himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. "I want a fucking s’mores made outta Poptarts."
At the mention of junk food, the impish bend of Liam’s grin softens to something a bit more genuine. He claps his hands together and bounds over the remains of failed improvised tent parts to his backpack, altogether looking ridiculous. The zipper gives him some trouble, but he eventually frees a mostly unsquished bag of jumbo marshmallows from inside.
"Hey, hold up." He squints at the prize, then peers up at Marty. "Who won?" Liam hadn't even gotten the chance to murder Marty at the dance, but that wasn't the only competition of the night.
Marty snatches for the marshmallows, like Liam isn’t about to share them anyway. Still, he snaps his hand back, possessive of the bounty before he gets an answer.
"We probably should have come up with a way to figure that out beforehand but… I think I definitely won," Marty declares, with his most shit-eating grin.
"Of course you do." Liam meets that smile with a scowl. For a moment, he considers a staring contest for a tie breaker. But the game had been first to sweep the other off their feet, and Liam knows that on that front, at least, Marty will always win. He waits a few seconds more, frowning to drive home just how impossible this decision is to make, then holds the bag out, ducking his gaze and pretending to root through his backpack looking for the pop tarts.
Marty snatches them and tears into the bag like a starved child, immediately stuffing a jumbo marshmallow into his mouth. He says something, but it’s almost entirely unintelligible, save for the word, "fuck."
Liam looks up before he's fished the pop tarts out of the bottom of his backpack. He quirks his head to the side, curious, though the look on his face is more skeptical than innocent. "Sorry, what's that?" Meanwhile, his hands find what they were searching for, and he rips the box open unceremoniously.
Marty almost shoves another marshmallow in his mouth, but the emergence of the pop tarts reminds him that there’s a goal at hand here. He feeds more wood into the fire, the better to roast sugar with, then fishes out a couple of long, slim sticks for roasting. "You gotta guess," he says. He takes his pocket knife out to whittle a crude point on each stick, then pass one Liam’s way.
"Well," Liam sets the pop tarts near enough to the fire to warm them, then retrieves a couple of wrapped chocolate bars. "Sounds like you were gloating about how easily I gave in." He bumps against Marty, peering at him over his glasses as he snatches an oversized marshmallow and spears it with his roasting stick. "Then I'm pretty sure you called me a fuck."
"Would I say something like that?" Marty asks, and it’s as good as an admission. He skewers his own marshmallow and holds it out over the flame. He doesn’t have the patience for a slow, even roast — or maybe it’s just personal preference — so he lets the whole thing catch fire before he lifts it to blow it out. "Your turn, though, and I’ll guess."
Liam's approach to marshmallow roasting is considerably more methodical. He shoves his stick into the dirt so that it angles near to, but not in, the flame. Then he retrieves a second marshmallow and shoves it in his mouth. It takes him a few moments to think of what to say, so he busies his hands with grabbing up two pop tarts, then unwrapping one of the chocolate bars.
"Yera fuggin' aghhoe," is straightforward enough to decipher once he's decided. He snaps the candy bar in half and sets it on top of Marty's charred marshmallow, saying more, words garbled, though the soft seriousness in his gaze speaks for itself. "Heehw." Liam slaps two pop tarts on either side of Marty's marshmallow, using them to pull it off the stick, and offers the collaborative s'more to his boyfriend.
He takes the offered treat without thanks and wastes no time before taking a huge bite out of it. The chocolate-marshmallow-strawberry combination is actually pretty good, not that either of them have particularly discerning palates. "You said I’m a fuckin’ asshole and... You’re so swept off your feet, you can barely stand it." He grins and offers him a bite of his s’more. "You gonna finish roasting that marshmallow anytime tonight?"
Liam answers Marty's guess with a snort and a roll of his eyes. Not quite a denial. He leans in for a hands free bite of the offered confection, smiling smugly as he chews.
"Good things take time." He counters, finally checking on his marshmallow and giving the stick a turn. "You impatient?"
"Only always," Marty says around another bite. At this rate, his whole s’mores sandwich will be gone before Liam’s marshmallow is even roasted. "Why wait if you don’t have to?"
A faint sound, a tiny amused hum, escapes Liam. He keeps his attention mostly on the marshmallow, watching as the color warms to a golden brown and stealing the occasional glance at Marty. "I like the wait. Makes it taste better when you finally get it."
Marty snorts, shaking his head with amusement. "Guess you’ll just have to prove that one to me."
The marshmallow puffs and bubbles, and Liam retracts it to start assembling his own glow up pop tart s'more. Once he's done, he sits before even taking a bite. It's long enough that the melted chocolate and sugar starts to ooze out onto his fingers, and at this point he's maybe delaying on purpose. He digs in with a large chomp, then turns to Marty, mouth still full, and says, "Mine's better."
Marty can’t deny that the messy, melty s’more has a visual appeal that burned marshmallow lacked, though he’s always enjoyed the taste of charred sugar. "Is it?" Marty asks, squinting in doubt. "Let me try it." Before Liam can answer, he’s already pushing his way into the other boy’s personal space, mouth wide open like a baby bird, and if Liam doesn’t angle the confection his way, he might end up biting a finger too.
S'more held just out of reach, Liam rocks into Marty, crashing against him with a bright bark of laughter that shakes his shoulders. He leans in, dangling the treat close and then pulling it away again before the other boy can get a bite. Every chaotic second of this new little game fills Liam's expression with a charged sort of lightness. "Here comes the airplane," he teases, finally allowing Marty to try a bit of his creation, mindful of his own fingers as he does so. It’s a good thing, too, because Marty chomps down with force. "How is it?"
Marty chews slowly, thoughtfully, as if there could ever be a bit of junk food he didn’t love. It’s warm and gooey and delightful. "It’s good," he says. "I don’t know if it’s better," he adds, lying. They both know it is.
"Mm, you’ve got some right there," Marty says, lighting his fingers gently on the side of Liam’s face to turn it towards him. He leans in, slowly. It’s a perfectly romantic moment, lit golden by the fire... but Marty is also a shithead. Rather than take the opportunity to seduce Liam, Marty licks the corner of his mouth from chin to nostril, leaving a wide swath of saliva. Payback for not giving him a bite sooner. "Got it."
"Waugh." Liam gives a heavy shudder, disgust cut by more laughter. He pulls Marty in by the shirt collar and then uses his face as a napkin, wiping his own cheek with his boyfriend's. "Fucker!" Marty just laughs, making no attempt to keep Liam away.
"You're so gross." Liam complains while stuffing most of what's left of his s'more in his mouth so the words come out partially muffled. Then, hands sticky with melted marshmallow and chocolate, and cheeks puffed out like a hamster storing food, he tackles Marty. He’s ready for it — more importantly, this time, he’s expecting to be tickled, so he’s on the defensive from the get go, arms in close to protect his vulnerable spots. Meanwhile, he does his best to lick Liam’s face again, tongue lolling out while they grapple.
Stuffing his face before a wrestling match was perhaps not the best laid plan, because the first thing Liam does when Marty comes at him with his tongue out is yelp, spraying pop tart crumbs everywhere. Marty wrinkles his nose and makes a grossed out sound himself, for a change. That provokes a bout of uncontrollable laughter that nearly has Liam choking. With considerable flailing, he alternates between trying to push Marty's face away and attempting to smear chocolate and marshmallow all over him, all while gingerly chewing so as not to bite his own tongue.
Multitasking leaves Liam distracted and disadvantaged, and Marty isn’t scared of getting sticky. If it’s an unfair fight because of it, he doesn’t mind. This time, he’s the one who flips them so he’s on top. He’s not nearly as concerned with injury, always the type to play rough, because what’s a scrape or two so long as you’re having fun? He is a little concerned that Liam might choke, though. Not enough to stop roughhousing, only enough to shout, "Shit, swallow already!"
The sound Liam makes in response is a stringy meandering whine that dithers right at the end, straining against more laughter. Further resistance to Marty proves futile, disoriented from the tussle and focusing on not aspirating melted sugar while he laughs through his nose. He holds both hands up, relenting, teary-eyed, and finally does as he's told— eating the last bit of s'more. As soon as he can, he opens his mouth and guffaws.
Marty laughs too. "How the tables turn," he declares. Despite the fact that he had been in this same position not long ago, and that he is currently sprinkled with soggy pop tart crumbs, he still manages to look smug.
Whatever Liam tries to say back is swallowed up in another peal of laughter. He swipes his arm across his eyes and takes a few deep, stilling breaths. Giggles still rumble in his chest as he licks some of the chocolate off his fingers, but gradually he calms down.
"You gonna make it?" Marty asks, eyebrows raising. "Finding someone else ‘cause you died sounds like too much work."
"What?" Liam asks, reaching up to wipe a piece of semi-chewed pop tart off Marty's face, just above his eyebrow. Whoops. He goes for sarcastic incredulity, but there's no hiding the warmth in his voice. "You're not going to weepily mourn me forever like a Victorian widow?"
"I’m too hot, it’d be a crime if no one got to take advantage of that," Marty answers. "Guess you’ll just have to haunt my ass."
"Fair." Liam says, ticking one brow up and letting his hand rest on the back of Marty's neck. "I was planning on that, anyway. Consider yourself possessed."
"Planning on what now? Haunting me or taking advantage of me?" He waggles his eyebrows for good measure.
Liam rolls his eyes hard enough that he knocks his chin back, scoffing softly. The fire flickers at the edge of his vision, and he tilts his head back further, peering upside down at the flames for a second before turning his attention back to his boyfriend. That orange light dances across his handsome features. It gives him an ethereal glow, makes him look like some trickster warrior-god. The sort of character Liam would write about in one of his overwrought stories — impossibly beautiful, infuriatingly charming, hard-edged, wolfish. He'd never admit it, but he hardly thinks there's much difference between this fictional version of his boyfriend and the real thing. Even covered in dirt and marshmallow and bits of pop tart.
"Why not both?" Liam asks, gently guiding Marty's face to his, leaning up to meet it, and then, shifting suddenly, licking him, side of the chin to the corner of his eye. One giant mlem.
"Bleh!" Marty says with his face screwed up in amused disgust, but he doesn’t bother to try to wipe it off, just leaves one side of his face shining wetly. It’s gross. It’s perfect. "Surprise! This is my kink. Consider me seduced."
That prompts a disbelieving grin and a snort of laughter. "What? Getting licked? And here I was hoping it'd really be feet."
"Oh, no, actually I meant having food spit at me. Sorry," he answers, barely containing laughter to maintain an almost serious expression. "But you can spit food at my feet if you’re into that."
"Hot." Liam deadpans, and then immediately loses his composure to another snort of laughter. His stomach aches and he grumbles about it, though the words are unintelligible. It's not from too much junk food, but too much laughing. It’s a slight pain in his muscles, soft and warm and satisfying. Safe. A feeling he's gotten used to, spending time with Marty.
Still giggling, he wraps his fingers around the edge of Marty's shirt collar and reels him in. The end goal seems obvious, but Liam stops short again. This time, though, it's not for a prank. Not really.
"You're the worst, and I'm going to haunt you forever." Liam mumbles, brushing his nose against the side of Marty's before closing the small gap left between them with a slow, smiling kiss.
Between the two of them, there’s hardly a higher compliment than you’re the worst, and Marty takes it in the spirit it was intended, beaming in response like Liam just admitted he won some unspoken bet. He imagines each small competition as a link in an unending chain, both of them gloating forever while neither really keeps score. The future never really seemed worth his consideration before, but the idea of it is a warm ember now, small and glowing and precious.
When he meets that kiss, it’s with deliberate, aching slowness and fleeting touch. One hand props him up, and the other barely brushes Liam’s cheek. At this point, he's maybe delaying on purpose. It’s mischievousness, vengeance, titillation, a game.
An impatient, needful sigh slips from Liam's lips. For all his bragging about enjoying the wait, the careful lightness of Marty's touch turns his thoughts red almost immediately. Liam pulls off his glasses and sets them aside, not really bothering to pay attention to where they land. Marty is his only focus. Here, his sun.
Marty teases with slight and hovering contact, and Liam presses closer in response, chasing hungrily after every delicate graze of Marty's lips against his, delighting in the game and wanting more. His hands find the hem of Marty's shirt, fingers pressing into the skin, and he hums deep in his throat when he manages to catch Marty in a deeper kiss. As much as he is enjoying turning Liam’s good-things-come-to-those-who-wait bit back against him, Marty will still light the marshmallow on fire every time rather than wait. When he kisses Liam again, there’s nothing delicate or tentative about it.
He is a force of nature, a wildfire, a supernova, and Liam is more than happy to be engulfed in his flames. The brief game had been wait enough. Liam pushes himself up on his elbows, practically knocking his nose against Marty's in his eagerness to meet him. But his lips find their mark despite his reckless enthusiasm. He catches the side of Marty's face with one hand, then pulls the both of them back down to the ground. Liam's shoulders hit the dirt and he breathes in sharply. They've made out plenty of times before, but this is somehow more than that. Overwhelming. His thoughts, when he has them at all, are incandescent bursts of surety and wanting and love. There's no more war. No more Shadows. Not here.
Liam lets his teeth graze Marty's lower lip before tilting his chin up to get a much needed breath of cool air. But it doesn't look like coming up for air to Marty, it looks like baring his throat. In answer, he dips his head, lips and teeth on Liam's pulse beneath his ear. What starts as ticklish wriggling at the feel of Marty’s lips on his neck quickly becomes more intentional movement. Marty paws and grasps, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and using it as leverage to pull him as close as possible. That earlier coy softness is all desperate fervor now, and he can't seem to get his hands on enough of Liam at once. Liam bends toward Marty everywhere he is pulled, tugging back each time his own hands come to rest in their thorough search of his body. He shoves Marty's shirt up, fingers gliding over the skin, touch burning, wanting to know every inch of him. It's frantic, an urgent craving, and it feels unstoppable. The universe contracts. Everything outside the firelight ceases to exist until the only thing left is the two of them. Marty murmurs something into the skin at the crook of Liam's throat, muffled like his words were earlier by marshmallows, and it sounds suspiciously like, I love you.
Liam recognizes the rhythm of Marty’s words. The cadence, the tone, the way he almost growls it. So long as they come from his lips, they will never lose their shape— their impact. And they hit like a truck. Liam gasps and sighs, "Marty."
With fumbling urgency, he guides Marty’s face to his. "I love you," is what Liam means to say back, though most of it gets caught up in the insistent kiss he presses against his boyfriend’s lips. He breathes heavily, cheeks and lips pink. He needs to be closer. "Should we keep going?"
"I mean, unless you've got something else you'd rather do," Marty says, smirking and shrugging one shoulder. But the nonchalant teasing doesn't hide the huskiness of his voice, the way he's still panting, or the fact that he's still so close that their noses brush. It doesn't hide the fact that his expression is filled with equal parts white hot heat and candid affection. Maybe he's not even trying to hide it. "But we did build a perfectly good tent. Maybe we could take some time to—" He interrupts himself to kiss Liam deeply. "— Go in there and study?"
"Ah, that tutoring session?" Liam asks, running his thumb over Marty's lower lip, indulging in the desire to explore every line of his body. His touch leaves the skin tingling in its wake, electrified. "In English, maybe." He hooks his hand on Marty's neck and kisses him again, chuckling softly at his own bad jokes. "Or Biology."
He pushes the both of them up and back, toward the tent. It would be easier if they would separate to close the distance, only a few feet, but they’re both unwilling to break contact. Liam holds Marty’s gaze, intense. It feels like he’ll lose himself in all that blue if he stares too long, but the idea of it doesn’t seem so bad. The corners of his mouth tilt up by slow measures until he's grinning, wide and full of mischief. "Mm, yeah, Biology."
Liam is flushed, clothes rumpled and stretched, hair tousled, glasses almost certainly lost, grinning playfully. He's as beautiful as he is ridiculous, and Marty has never seen anything that made him feel such adoration and devotion all at once — not to mention dark and roiling need. "You can teach me whatever you want," he replies ardently, and he can't help but mirror Liam's grin with one of his own.
"I will." Liam responds, voice and expression ravenous, fingers curling into Marty's clothes. It takes conscious effort to push rather than pull. Unable to totally resist, he leans in toward Marty again as he guides them toward the tent. The kiss is long and eager, like being apart from him is going without air, without sunlight, and his touch lights everything up again. Like he needs it— him. And perhaps he does. At the mouth of the tent he pauses to lean his forehead against Marty's, just a second or two of slow contact, then ushers him inside.
It's the birds that wake Liam up with their persistent singing. He opens one eye and notices that he can see the sky, bright blue and full of sun. Like Marty's eyes. Which is an embarrassing sleep-brain thought that makes Liam glad telepathy isn't a thing. In his half-awake state, it takes a moment to compute why a blue sky above isn't right, and even once he's realized that their tent is more or less just their blanket now, he's not pressed about it. Not when Marty's here in his arms. He is warm, breathing slow and even, and it pulls Liam back toward sleep. He buries his face in Marty's hair. Why greet the day when he has everything he wants right here? "My sunshine."
"Mmmm," Marty grumbles, at least still half asleep, burrowing his face into Liam’s shoulder. It’s too bright, too loud, but he is too comfortable to care. The spring morning is chilly, but they are protected inside the cocoon of their sleeping bag, underneath their tent-blanket. He snakes an arm around Liam’s ribcage, pulling him tighter like a teddy bear. He stays that way for a few moments, hovering on the edge of wakefulness. Finally, he lifts his head just a little bit, squinting one eye open. "Fucking tent," he says as a slow sleepy smirk blooms across his face.
"We did a shit job," Liam says against the top of Marty's head. After a few seconds, he lifts his arm and gestures vaguely toward the single pole still standing, though it's bent to a U-shape and most of the tent's tarp has slipped off of it. "'M pretty sure I put that one up, though." He brags, then lets his hand fall back over Marty's shoulder to stroke his arm with his thumb.
"The fuck you did," Marty answers, without even looking where Liam is gesturing. He can’t remember who did what, but he’ll still fight Liam over it, even half asleep. "Ass," he adds, then turns his head slightly to bite him, though it’s more of a toothless puppy nom. Liam laughs, giddy and startled, wrenching himself away from the sudden and ticklish feeling grazing his shoulder and tangling the both of them up in the tent canopy even more.
"Shithead." He says, rolling back over to face his boyfriend. He presses in close, planting his lips on Marty's, and then blows a raspberry. Marty’s cheeks puff, and he pulls back sputtering and laughing. There’s no room for a fight, but he still smacks Liam’s arm before he snuggles back in again. "You know. We don’t have to go back yet." He grabs the tarp to pull it over their heads, and though can’t filter out all of the light, it leaves them in dark blue like they’re deep underwater. "See? It’s night," he says, then tucks his head under the other boy’s jaw.
A crooked smile cuts across Liam's face. There's something so playful, so innocent, about Marty's words. He sounds like a child just wanting a few more minutes to play outside before dinner. At once it is strange and utterly natural. That's Marty, though: equal parts pleasant surprise and comfortable familiarity. The thought fills Liam with a fizzy sort of brightness, right at the top of his chest, too impossibly large to fit where it is, but there all the same. He doesn't respond immediately, hoping that silence might draw that feeling out into eternity. But the longer he's still, the more darkness worries through, trying to get at the precious shine. He wraps his arms tight around Marty, pulling him closer, breathing in the lingering smell of campfire smoke in his hair. If only this were enough— not just to preserve the feeling, but to protect Marty from the things waiting for them just beyond their crinkly nylon bubble. Marty always makes him feel safe. Liam wishes he could be the same sort of armor.
He's not sure if he can, but for now their ruined tent makes for a fine little refuge. A shield against everything outside of it: crowded dorms and schoolwork, Shadows and fighting and danger. "It is night again, you're right." Liam shuts his eyes, angling his chin down to brush his lips against the top of Marty's head, already drifting off again. "You never told me you can control the Sun." But he'd believe him if he did.
WHAT: A post-prom adventure.
WHEN: After Prom
WHERE: At the edge of campus
WARNING: Language, PG-13 makin' out, ??13 pages of generally embarrassing??
Tracking down an adequate clearing isn't hard; there are half a dozen places to pitch a tent just beyond the tree line surrounding campus. Avoiding discovery is the name of the game tonight, though, and that takes a bit more hiking. As they walk deeper into the woods, Liam wonders whether this is a normal way to spend After Prom. Not that it matters, really. Normal or no, it's fun, and Liam would be lying if he said this hadn't been the part of the night he was looking forward to most: alone time (and, more importantly, mischief) with his favorite person.
The perfect spot presents itself just before Liam gets the urge to complain about how long they've been walking, a grassy opening flanked by shrubs and a budding sapling. He claims the space by abruptly dropping the bundled tent tucked under his arm. His half of the snacks he sets down with more care, and as soon as his hands are free, he grabs Marty's palm, giving it a squeeze. It's a chilly spring night, so, "You wanna get the fire started?" That seems right up Marty's alley. "Make a pit for it with rocks while we clear a space for the tent."
Marty drops his book bag — which rarely contains books — down beside Liam's. It's dark, and they only have small flashlights to avoid being spotted, so Marty doesn't see Liam reaching for him until he already has his hand. He uses it to yank Liam towards him. "Oh, I'll get a fire started alright," he replies, tone suggestive, even if his innuendo doesn't completely make sense.
Liam's free hand immediately finds Marty's lips, stopping any further advance and illuminating both their faces with the pen light between his fingers. It takes him a second longer than it should to respond, scrutinizing Marty with an expression that's part scowl, like he might actually be thinking about going for it. To his credit, Marty resists the urge to bite Liam’s hand.
"Literal fire, Casanova. I'm not sleeping on dirt and rocks in the cold." Logic wins out, and Liam gently shoves Marty away with a laugh. He turns away, getting to the work of clearing their tent space, but is turning his grin back to Marty before long, "I like that energy, though."
"Ooooh," Marty says, playfully dumb, as if he didn’t know. "Fine, fine. Someone’s got to be a picky prince. This ain’t glamping, you know." But, he sets up a pit and starts gathering up limbs and sticks. He’s slept on dirt and rocks in the cold before, and truth be told, he’s not much of a fan either. It doesn’t take him long poking around the periphery of their chosen campsite to gather enough wood to get a fire started, and he squats down in the center to arrange it. For kindling, he pulls several wadded up papers from the front pocket of his backpack. They look suspiciously like graded papers, but there’s not much chance to see before they’re meeting their demise.
Glancing up, Liam manages to catch the markers of school assignments just before they're torched. He quirks his head to the side, puppyish and frowning. Starting an argument is not what he wants to be doing right now, but resisting the urge proves difficult. For a few seconds, he succeeds, tossing some inconveniently large branches into the darkness, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth shut. There's no helping it, though, and as he returns to the bundled tent parts to separate them out, he inquires: "Math or English?"
Marty grins and shrugs one shoulder. Liam doesn’t miss much, so it’s no surprise that he spotted him lighting up school work. "Math, I think. Didn’t really look." He pokes at the little flame, feeding it twigs to encourage it to grow.
"Hm." Liam spreads out the tent groundsheet, and it seems like he's not going to push the topic further than that. He selects a spoke and threads it through the frame, and then another, brow knit in consternation, though not from tent assembly.
He points the pole in his hand in Marty's direction. "You could've probably used those to study, later, you know."
Marty swats the pole away. "If I was gonna study, wouldn’t do me any good to study a bunch of red X’s, would it? Do more good to study something with a couple right answers on it." He tosses a couple more branches on top of the fire, watches for a few minutes while they catch, then moves over to stand beside Liam. He picks up a pole, turns it this way and that, then slots it into a connector.
Schoolwork is hardly a romantic topic and Liam knows it, so he puts his attention on carefully leading the tent pole through the nylon tent canopy, instead. It's tedious work. Everything wants to snag on everything else, and Liam's jaw works as he fusses with it. The silence, naturally, lasts only about ten seconds.
"You redo the red X's 'til they're right and they make sense." He says, looking up from his half of the tent. He's not sure if Marty knows what he's doing, but, then, he certainly has to know more than Liam, whose entire camping knowledge base comes from skimming the Assembling A Tent WikiHow article two days ago. He has no room to talk, here. And, anyway, there's something nice about watching Marty work. Impulsively, Liam bumps against him. "Guess we'll need to spend some more time studying." The way he says the word 'studying' makes it sound like he does not, in fact, mean the dictionary definition of studying.
Marty groans, letting his head flop backwards. Even the emphasis on the word studying doesn’t wholly appease him, because he knows Liam is also going to make him study in the dictionary definition way too. "They don’t ever make sense," he says. He whaps Liam’s arm with the pole in his hand, which sends the connector flying off into the grass. Whoops.
"Nice." Liam snorts, gaining some measure of joy from the instant retribution— even if it is misfortune for both of them. Marty pulls out his flashlight again as he moves off to that side, sweeping it back and forth to look for the part. Liam watches him pick through the grass a few paces off, deciding almost immediately to be a smartass. "Practice makes perfect."
A little rubber cap comes off the end of the spoke in Liam's hand. It's probably not a vital piece of equipment, so he throws it at the back of Marty's head. It bounces off into the darkness, doomed to join the connector piece what Marty is never going to find, because suddenly he’s rounding on Liam. His expression is full of playful ferocity in the seconds before he tackles Liam to the ground.
They land hard. Liam wheezes out a laugh, dropping the partially-constructed tent and throwing his arms around Marty's trunk. He should worry about where the fire is, where the tent poles are. Instead, he's groping for the edge of Marty's underwear to try and give him a wedgie. Marty squirms, trying to grab Liam by the arms, wrists, anything to pin him.
"What're you even—" Liam shrieks and laughs, wriggling free every time Marty seems to have him held in place. When Marty finally manages to catch one of his hands, the other snakes under his shirt in search of that soft spot just beneath his ribs. For a moment, Marty thinks victory is imminent, but then Liam’s fingers dig into his sides. "Fuck!" he barks, collapsing on top of the other boy, jerking and trying to wiggle free, focused now on escape.
Marty may be on the retreat, but Liam isn't here for a surrender. No, he's going to pin him. Which is easier said than done, of course. Liam's laughter jumps up, high and loud. Amidst the flailing, he narrowly avoids a knee between the legs, but does catch an elbow in his gut that almost puts him out. He grunts, but refuses to relent, pitching his weight hard to one side.
It's quite the tussle, but Liam's still careful to cradle Marty's head as they roll over. Even in the midst of a wrestling match, he's worried about more serious injury. Once he's flipped the both of them, Liam stills, breathing heavily and curious to see if Marty will struggle.
Marty raises both hands, yielding. He’s panting, and still laughing breathily, so it takes him a couple of minutes before he can speak. "You win." He lets his hands fall over his head, grinning up at Liam, whose carefully styled curls are tousled and whose glasses are askew. Marty had thought his boyfriend was handsome at the dance, but he likes this look even better. "You’re such... a fucking shit," he says with with transparent affection. This is all so ridiculous, but it’s a mundane kind of ridiculousness. Normal teenage behavior, nothing supernatural or deadly. There was a time when he thought he could never be satisfied with ordinary again, but maybe he could get used to this after all.
There's a triumphant grin on Liam's face, the corners of his mouth tugged up just high enough to call it mischievous, too. For a few seconds, he just stares, hopelessly in love with the heavy rise and fall of Marty's chest, the way his smile reaches his eyes, that smudge of dirt across his chin. Out here, in the woods, in the dark, yours til I die or you find someone better feels like it really could mean forever.
"So're you," Liam mumbles. He scoops both of Marty's wrists up in his hand, presses them into the grass, and dips down to kiss him.
If it were anyone else, Marty couldn’t stand it, never being one to take defeat well. But seeing Liam grin like that, eyes shining with glee and firelight, is a fair consolation prize. Not that he would ever admit it. He huffs, determined to act put out by Liam’s gloating expression, but the sound catches in his throat when Liam kisses him. Not that he’s complaining. It’s an even better prize. Marty meets that kiss lazily. There’s no time constraint, no teachers to shoo them, and no roommates to consider. Nothing but stars overhead, time to waste, and each other’s company, and Marty means to enjoy it.
Liam hums, low and pleased, losing himself in the deliberate slowness of their kiss. Frantic is fun, but this is intoxicating. Before long, he's busying himself with kissing Marty's jaw, then a line down his neck. Each press of his lips to the other boy's skin tinged with greater intent. Tugging Marty's collar down with one finger, Liam pauses to linger at his clavicle. His thoughts come in fuzzy, but even with the details blurred, familiar worries are still there. Part of him wishes he could just shut his brain off entirely, and that's why Liam forces himself to slow down. To consider the fire, the chilly April air, the tent. He exhales, half-frustrated with his own need to be practical, and lifts his head to look Marty in the eye. His grin immediately goes crooked. "You can call me a prince, but I'm still not gonna sleep in the fuckin' dirt."
Marty knows that exasperated sigh, and when he opens his eyes, he immediately starts to laugh again. "Shit, dude." Marty’s not often one for practicality at the expense of instant gratification, but he knows that later, when it’s cold and they have a nylon roof over their heads, he’ll be grateful that Liam is. He sighs, lifting himself up enough to press a chaste, even sweet, kiss to Liam’s lips. "Then let’s build a fucking tent."
They may have their work cut out for them, but Liam still wastes a few more seconds savoring the softness of the moment. Every subtle hint of tenderness Marty shows him warms him deep in his core, and he finds himself desperate to capture it, make it last— not forever (he likes the wrestling and the teasing too much), but longer than an instant.
So it is with reluctance that he finally shoves himself off his boyfriend and crawls on all fours over to the discarded tent. Picking up a spike in one hand, he plops down into the dust. "I have a confession to make," Liam says, touching the point of the plastic spike with his finger. Ow. Yes. It is sharp. "I donno what the hell I'm doing."
Marty joins him, sitting cross legged in the dirt in front of what could, with some luck, eventually be a tent. For now, it’s a pile of parts. "Hell, I never know what I’m doing, but it usually works out for me," he replies with an encouraging grin. One of the skills he has mastered as a second is coming off like he’s making fun of you, but also genuinely believes in you at the same time.
It’s slow going, and more than once Marty considers resigning themselves to sleeping in the dirt whether Liam likes it or not. They have to employ some creative engineering, making use of a few sturdy sticks and the roll of duct tape that Marty brought in his backpack, but eventually, the tent is assembled. Technically, anyway. It sags a little bit in the middle, and one side had to be tied up to a tree branch with one of Liam's shoelaces to keep it from dipping further. It's certainly something.
Liam stands to get a better look at it all. He quirks his head to the side, examining the tent like it's an art installation, then turns his shittiest grin Marty's way. "Look at what we're capable of when we put our minds to something," he deadpans while his fingers idly twirl a lock of his boyfriend's hair.
Marty remains seated in a crouch, arms draped over his knees, eyeing their accomplishment with some skepticism and an abundance of amusement. He absentmindedly tilts his head into Liam’s hand, angling towards his touch like a dog trying to get the best scratches. "Nothing to write home about, but I guess it’ll do. Now." He pushes himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head. "I want a fucking s’mores made outta Poptarts."
At the mention of junk food, the impish bend of Liam’s grin softens to something a bit more genuine. He claps his hands together and bounds over the remains of failed improvised tent parts to his backpack, altogether looking ridiculous. The zipper gives him some trouble, but he eventually frees a mostly unsquished bag of jumbo marshmallows from inside.
"Hey, hold up." He squints at the prize, then peers up at Marty. "Who won?" Liam hadn't even gotten the chance to murder Marty at the dance, but that wasn't the only competition of the night.
Marty snatches for the marshmallows, like Liam isn’t about to share them anyway. Still, he snaps his hand back, possessive of the bounty before he gets an answer.
"We probably should have come up with a way to figure that out beforehand but… I think I definitely won," Marty declares, with his most shit-eating grin.
"Of course you do." Liam meets that smile with a scowl. For a moment, he considers a staring contest for a tie breaker. But the game had been first to sweep the other off their feet, and Liam knows that on that front, at least, Marty will always win. He waits a few seconds more, frowning to drive home just how impossible this decision is to make, then holds the bag out, ducking his gaze and pretending to root through his backpack looking for the pop tarts.
Marty snatches them and tears into the bag like a starved child, immediately stuffing a jumbo marshmallow into his mouth. He says something, but it’s almost entirely unintelligible, save for the word, "fuck."
Liam looks up before he's fished the pop tarts out of the bottom of his backpack. He quirks his head to the side, curious, though the look on his face is more skeptical than innocent. "Sorry, what's that?" Meanwhile, his hands find what they were searching for, and he rips the box open unceremoniously.
Marty almost shoves another marshmallow in his mouth, but the emergence of the pop tarts reminds him that there’s a goal at hand here. He feeds more wood into the fire, the better to roast sugar with, then fishes out a couple of long, slim sticks for roasting. "You gotta guess," he says. He takes his pocket knife out to whittle a crude point on each stick, then pass one Liam’s way.
"Well," Liam sets the pop tarts near enough to the fire to warm them, then retrieves a couple of wrapped chocolate bars. "Sounds like you were gloating about how easily I gave in." He bumps against Marty, peering at him over his glasses as he snatches an oversized marshmallow and spears it with his roasting stick. "Then I'm pretty sure you called me a fuck."
"Would I say something like that?" Marty asks, and it’s as good as an admission. He skewers his own marshmallow and holds it out over the flame. He doesn’t have the patience for a slow, even roast — or maybe it’s just personal preference — so he lets the whole thing catch fire before he lifts it to blow it out. "Your turn, though, and I’ll guess."
Liam's approach to marshmallow roasting is considerably more methodical. He shoves his stick into the dirt so that it angles near to, but not in, the flame. Then he retrieves a second marshmallow and shoves it in his mouth. It takes him a few moments to think of what to say, so he busies his hands with grabbing up two pop tarts, then unwrapping one of the chocolate bars.
"Yera fuggin' aghhoe," is straightforward enough to decipher once he's decided. He snaps the candy bar in half and sets it on top of Marty's charred marshmallow, saying more, words garbled, though the soft seriousness in his gaze speaks for itself. "Heehw." Liam slaps two pop tarts on either side of Marty's marshmallow, using them to pull it off the stick, and offers the collaborative s'more to his boyfriend.
He takes the offered treat without thanks and wastes no time before taking a huge bite out of it. The chocolate-marshmallow-strawberry combination is actually pretty good, not that either of them have particularly discerning palates. "You said I’m a fuckin’ asshole and... You’re so swept off your feet, you can barely stand it." He grins and offers him a bite of his s’more. "You gonna finish roasting that marshmallow anytime tonight?"
Liam answers Marty's guess with a snort and a roll of his eyes. Not quite a denial. He leans in for a hands free bite of the offered confection, smiling smugly as he chews.
"Good things take time." He counters, finally checking on his marshmallow and giving the stick a turn. "You impatient?"
"Only always," Marty says around another bite. At this rate, his whole s’mores sandwich will be gone before Liam’s marshmallow is even roasted. "Why wait if you don’t have to?"
A faint sound, a tiny amused hum, escapes Liam. He keeps his attention mostly on the marshmallow, watching as the color warms to a golden brown and stealing the occasional glance at Marty. "I like the wait. Makes it taste better when you finally get it."
Marty snorts, shaking his head with amusement. "Guess you’ll just have to prove that one to me."
The marshmallow puffs and bubbles, and Liam retracts it to start assembling his own glow up pop tart s'more. Once he's done, he sits before even taking a bite. It's long enough that the melted chocolate and sugar starts to ooze out onto his fingers, and at this point he's maybe delaying on purpose. He digs in with a large chomp, then turns to Marty, mouth still full, and says, "Mine's better."
Marty can’t deny that the messy, melty s’more has a visual appeal that burned marshmallow lacked, though he’s always enjoyed the taste of charred sugar. "Is it?" Marty asks, squinting in doubt. "Let me try it." Before Liam can answer, he’s already pushing his way into the other boy’s personal space, mouth wide open like a baby bird, and if Liam doesn’t angle the confection his way, he might end up biting a finger too.
S'more held just out of reach, Liam rocks into Marty, crashing against him with a bright bark of laughter that shakes his shoulders. He leans in, dangling the treat close and then pulling it away again before the other boy can get a bite. Every chaotic second of this new little game fills Liam's expression with a charged sort of lightness. "Here comes the airplane," he teases, finally allowing Marty to try a bit of his creation, mindful of his own fingers as he does so. It’s a good thing, too, because Marty chomps down with force. "How is it?"
Marty chews slowly, thoughtfully, as if there could ever be a bit of junk food he didn’t love. It’s warm and gooey and delightful. "It’s good," he says. "I don’t know if it’s better," he adds, lying. They both know it is.
"Mm, you’ve got some right there," Marty says, lighting his fingers gently on the side of Liam’s face to turn it towards him. He leans in, slowly. It’s a perfectly romantic moment, lit golden by the fire... but Marty is also a shithead. Rather than take the opportunity to seduce Liam, Marty licks the corner of his mouth from chin to nostril, leaving a wide swath of saliva. Payback for not giving him a bite sooner. "Got it."
"Waugh." Liam gives a heavy shudder, disgust cut by more laughter. He pulls Marty in by the shirt collar and then uses his face as a napkin, wiping his own cheek with his boyfriend's. "Fucker!" Marty just laughs, making no attempt to keep Liam away.
"You're so gross." Liam complains while stuffing most of what's left of his s'more in his mouth so the words come out partially muffled. Then, hands sticky with melted marshmallow and chocolate, and cheeks puffed out like a hamster storing food, he tackles Marty. He’s ready for it — more importantly, this time, he’s expecting to be tickled, so he’s on the defensive from the get go, arms in close to protect his vulnerable spots. Meanwhile, he does his best to lick Liam’s face again, tongue lolling out while they grapple.
Stuffing his face before a wrestling match was perhaps not the best laid plan, because the first thing Liam does when Marty comes at him with his tongue out is yelp, spraying pop tart crumbs everywhere. Marty wrinkles his nose and makes a grossed out sound himself, for a change. That provokes a bout of uncontrollable laughter that nearly has Liam choking. With considerable flailing, he alternates between trying to push Marty's face away and attempting to smear chocolate and marshmallow all over him, all while gingerly chewing so as not to bite his own tongue.
Multitasking leaves Liam distracted and disadvantaged, and Marty isn’t scared of getting sticky. If it’s an unfair fight because of it, he doesn’t mind. This time, he’s the one who flips them so he’s on top. He’s not nearly as concerned with injury, always the type to play rough, because what’s a scrape or two so long as you’re having fun? He is a little concerned that Liam might choke, though. Not enough to stop roughhousing, only enough to shout, "Shit, swallow already!"
The sound Liam makes in response is a stringy meandering whine that dithers right at the end, straining against more laughter. Further resistance to Marty proves futile, disoriented from the tussle and focusing on not aspirating melted sugar while he laughs through his nose. He holds both hands up, relenting, teary-eyed, and finally does as he's told— eating the last bit of s'more. As soon as he can, he opens his mouth and guffaws.
Marty laughs too. "How the tables turn," he declares. Despite the fact that he had been in this same position not long ago, and that he is currently sprinkled with soggy pop tart crumbs, he still manages to look smug.
Whatever Liam tries to say back is swallowed up in another peal of laughter. He swipes his arm across his eyes and takes a few deep, stilling breaths. Giggles still rumble in his chest as he licks some of the chocolate off his fingers, but gradually he calms down.
"You gonna make it?" Marty asks, eyebrows raising. "Finding someone else ‘cause you died sounds like too much work."
"What?" Liam asks, reaching up to wipe a piece of semi-chewed pop tart off Marty's face, just above his eyebrow. Whoops. He goes for sarcastic incredulity, but there's no hiding the warmth in his voice. "You're not going to weepily mourn me forever like a Victorian widow?"
"I’m too hot, it’d be a crime if no one got to take advantage of that," Marty answers. "Guess you’ll just have to haunt my ass."
"Fair." Liam says, ticking one brow up and letting his hand rest on the back of Marty's neck. "I was planning on that, anyway. Consider yourself possessed."
"Planning on what now? Haunting me or taking advantage of me?" He waggles his eyebrows for good measure.
Liam rolls his eyes hard enough that he knocks his chin back, scoffing softly. The fire flickers at the edge of his vision, and he tilts his head back further, peering upside down at the flames for a second before turning his attention back to his boyfriend. That orange light dances across his handsome features. It gives him an ethereal glow, makes him look like some trickster warrior-god. The sort of character Liam would write about in one of his overwrought stories — impossibly beautiful, infuriatingly charming, hard-edged, wolfish. He'd never admit it, but he hardly thinks there's much difference between this fictional version of his boyfriend and the real thing. Even covered in dirt and marshmallow and bits of pop tart.
"Why not both?" Liam asks, gently guiding Marty's face to his, leaning up to meet it, and then, shifting suddenly, licking him, side of the chin to the corner of his eye. One giant mlem.
"Bleh!" Marty says with his face screwed up in amused disgust, but he doesn’t bother to try to wipe it off, just leaves one side of his face shining wetly. It’s gross. It’s perfect. "Surprise! This is my kink. Consider me seduced."
That prompts a disbelieving grin and a snort of laughter. "What? Getting licked? And here I was hoping it'd really be feet."
"Oh, no, actually I meant having food spit at me. Sorry," he answers, barely containing laughter to maintain an almost serious expression. "But you can spit food at my feet if you’re into that."
"Hot." Liam deadpans, and then immediately loses his composure to another snort of laughter. His stomach aches and he grumbles about it, though the words are unintelligible. It's not from too much junk food, but too much laughing. It’s a slight pain in his muscles, soft and warm and satisfying. Safe. A feeling he's gotten used to, spending time with Marty.
Still giggling, he wraps his fingers around the edge of Marty's shirt collar and reels him in. The end goal seems obvious, but Liam stops short again. This time, though, it's not for a prank. Not really.
"You're the worst, and I'm going to haunt you forever." Liam mumbles, brushing his nose against the side of Marty's before closing the small gap left between them with a slow, smiling kiss.
Between the two of them, there’s hardly a higher compliment than you’re the worst, and Marty takes it in the spirit it was intended, beaming in response like Liam just admitted he won some unspoken bet. He imagines each small competition as a link in an unending chain, both of them gloating forever while neither really keeps score. The future never really seemed worth his consideration before, but the idea of it is a warm ember now, small and glowing and precious.
When he meets that kiss, it’s with deliberate, aching slowness and fleeting touch. One hand props him up, and the other barely brushes Liam’s cheek. At this point, he's maybe delaying on purpose. It’s mischievousness, vengeance, titillation, a game.
An impatient, needful sigh slips from Liam's lips. For all his bragging about enjoying the wait, the careful lightness of Marty's touch turns his thoughts red almost immediately. Liam pulls off his glasses and sets them aside, not really bothering to pay attention to where they land. Marty is his only focus. Here, his sun.
Marty teases with slight and hovering contact, and Liam presses closer in response, chasing hungrily after every delicate graze of Marty's lips against his, delighting in the game and wanting more. His hands find the hem of Marty's shirt, fingers pressing into the skin, and he hums deep in his throat when he manages to catch Marty in a deeper kiss. As much as he is enjoying turning Liam’s good-things-come-to-those-who-wait bit back against him, Marty will still light the marshmallow on fire every time rather than wait. When he kisses Liam again, there’s nothing delicate or tentative about it.
He is a force of nature, a wildfire, a supernova, and Liam is more than happy to be engulfed in his flames. The brief game had been wait enough. Liam pushes himself up on his elbows, practically knocking his nose against Marty's in his eagerness to meet him. But his lips find their mark despite his reckless enthusiasm. He catches the side of Marty's face with one hand, then pulls the both of them back down to the ground. Liam's shoulders hit the dirt and he breathes in sharply. They've made out plenty of times before, but this is somehow more than that. Overwhelming. His thoughts, when he has them at all, are incandescent bursts of surety and wanting and love. There's no more war. No more Shadows. Not here.
Liam lets his teeth graze Marty's lower lip before tilting his chin up to get a much needed breath of cool air. But it doesn't look like coming up for air to Marty, it looks like baring his throat. In answer, he dips his head, lips and teeth on Liam's pulse beneath his ear. What starts as ticklish wriggling at the feel of Marty’s lips on his neck quickly becomes more intentional movement. Marty paws and grasps, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and using it as leverage to pull him as close as possible. That earlier coy softness is all desperate fervor now, and he can't seem to get his hands on enough of Liam at once. Liam bends toward Marty everywhere he is pulled, tugging back each time his own hands come to rest in their thorough search of his body. He shoves Marty's shirt up, fingers gliding over the skin, touch burning, wanting to know every inch of him. It's frantic, an urgent craving, and it feels unstoppable. The universe contracts. Everything outside the firelight ceases to exist until the only thing left is the two of them. Marty murmurs something into the skin at the crook of Liam's throat, muffled like his words were earlier by marshmallows, and it sounds suspiciously like, I love you.
Liam recognizes the rhythm of Marty’s words. The cadence, the tone, the way he almost growls it. So long as they come from his lips, they will never lose their shape— their impact. And they hit like a truck. Liam gasps and sighs, "Marty."
With fumbling urgency, he guides Marty’s face to his. "I love you," is what Liam means to say back, though most of it gets caught up in the insistent kiss he presses against his boyfriend’s lips. He breathes heavily, cheeks and lips pink. He needs to be closer. "Should we keep going?"
"I mean, unless you've got something else you'd rather do," Marty says, smirking and shrugging one shoulder. But the nonchalant teasing doesn't hide the huskiness of his voice, the way he's still panting, or the fact that he's still so close that their noses brush. It doesn't hide the fact that his expression is filled with equal parts white hot heat and candid affection. Maybe he's not even trying to hide it. "But we did build a perfectly good tent. Maybe we could take some time to—" He interrupts himself to kiss Liam deeply. "— Go in there and study?"
"Ah, that tutoring session?" Liam asks, running his thumb over Marty's lower lip, indulging in the desire to explore every line of his body. His touch leaves the skin tingling in its wake, electrified. "In English, maybe." He hooks his hand on Marty's neck and kisses him again, chuckling softly at his own bad jokes. "Or Biology."
He pushes the both of them up and back, toward the tent. It would be easier if they would separate to close the distance, only a few feet, but they’re both unwilling to break contact. Liam holds Marty’s gaze, intense. It feels like he’ll lose himself in all that blue if he stares too long, but the idea of it doesn’t seem so bad. The corners of his mouth tilt up by slow measures until he's grinning, wide and full of mischief. "Mm, yeah, Biology."
Liam is flushed, clothes rumpled and stretched, hair tousled, glasses almost certainly lost, grinning playfully. He's as beautiful as he is ridiculous, and Marty has never seen anything that made him feel such adoration and devotion all at once — not to mention dark and roiling need. "You can teach me whatever you want," he replies ardently, and he can't help but mirror Liam's grin with one of his own.
"I will." Liam responds, voice and expression ravenous, fingers curling into Marty's clothes. It takes conscious effort to push rather than pull. Unable to totally resist, he leans in toward Marty again as he guides them toward the tent. The kiss is long and eager, like being apart from him is going without air, without sunlight, and his touch lights everything up again. Like he needs it— him. And perhaps he does. At the mouth of the tent he pauses to lean his forehead against Marty's, just a second or two of slow contact, then ushers him inside.
It's the birds that wake Liam up with their persistent singing. He opens one eye and notices that he can see the sky, bright blue and full of sun. Like Marty's eyes. Which is an embarrassing sleep-brain thought that makes Liam glad telepathy isn't a thing. In his half-awake state, it takes a moment to compute why a blue sky above isn't right, and even once he's realized that their tent is more or less just their blanket now, he's not pressed about it. Not when Marty's here in his arms. He is warm, breathing slow and even, and it pulls Liam back toward sleep. He buries his face in Marty's hair. Why greet the day when he has everything he wants right here? "My sunshine."
"Mmmm," Marty grumbles, at least still half asleep, burrowing his face into Liam’s shoulder. It’s too bright, too loud, but he is too comfortable to care. The spring morning is chilly, but they are protected inside the cocoon of their sleeping bag, underneath their tent-blanket. He snakes an arm around Liam’s ribcage, pulling him tighter like a teddy bear. He stays that way for a few moments, hovering on the edge of wakefulness. Finally, he lifts his head just a little bit, squinting one eye open. "Fucking tent," he says as a slow sleepy smirk blooms across his face.
"We did a shit job," Liam says against the top of Marty's head. After a few seconds, he lifts his arm and gestures vaguely toward the single pole still standing, though it's bent to a U-shape and most of the tent's tarp has slipped off of it. "'M pretty sure I put that one up, though." He brags, then lets his hand fall back over Marty's shoulder to stroke his arm with his thumb.
"The fuck you did," Marty answers, without even looking where Liam is gesturing. He can’t remember who did what, but he’ll still fight Liam over it, even half asleep. "Ass," he adds, then turns his head slightly to bite him, though it’s more of a toothless puppy nom. Liam laughs, giddy and startled, wrenching himself away from the sudden and ticklish feeling grazing his shoulder and tangling the both of them up in the tent canopy even more.
"Shithead." He says, rolling back over to face his boyfriend. He presses in close, planting his lips on Marty's, and then blows a raspberry. Marty’s cheeks puff, and he pulls back sputtering and laughing. There’s no room for a fight, but he still smacks Liam’s arm before he snuggles back in again. "You know. We don’t have to go back yet." He grabs the tarp to pull it over their heads, and though can’t filter out all of the light, it leaves them in dark blue like they’re deep underwater. "See? It’s night," he says, then tucks his head under the other boy’s jaw.
A crooked smile cuts across Liam's face. There's something so playful, so innocent, about Marty's words. He sounds like a child just wanting a few more minutes to play outside before dinner. At once it is strange and utterly natural. That's Marty, though: equal parts pleasant surprise and comfortable familiarity. The thought fills Liam with a fizzy sort of brightness, right at the top of his chest, too impossibly large to fit where it is, but there all the same. He doesn't respond immediately, hoping that silence might draw that feeling out into eternity. But the longer he's still, the more darkness worries through, trying to get at the precious shine. He wraps his arms tight around Marty, pulling him closer, breathing in the lingering smell of campfire smoke in his hair. If only this were enough— not just to preserve the feeling, but to protect Marty from the things waiting for them just beyond their crinkly nylon bubble. Marty always makes him feel safe. Liam wishes he could be the same sort of armor.
He's not sure if he can, but for now their ruined tent makes for a fine little refuge. A shield against everything outside of it: crowded dorms and schoolwork, Shadows and fighting and danger. "It is night again, you're right." Liam shuts his eyes, angling his chin down to brush his lips against the top of Marty's head, already drifting off again. "You never told me you can control the Sun." But he'd believe him if he did.
