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davosmymaster · 2 years

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Fallen from Heaven, Grown on Earth

A/N - Hello everyone! Long time no see. Here is a story I wrote for @beautifulbows924 's writing challenge. Thank you so much for this! <3 Before you start reading I'd like to say I'm very proud of this, even if it's not as good as I'd like it to be. I had never written such a long story, (and finished it) and obviously not in English. As always, English is not my first language, and this had no beta reader so forgive me and please, laugh out loud if I write something that doesn't make sense. Also, my first time writing smut, please don’t come at me.

Also, this fic turned out a bit dark near the end, I'm obviously against any type of violence. If you need help, there's plenty of resources out there for you. You're not alone.

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, eventual smut, graphic descriptions of sex, blood, mentions of self harm and suicide (they do not happen, they are only mentioned but just in case), dubius consent because DID (?), DID probably not accurate, canon-typical violence, angst, hurt/comfort, nightmares, panic attacks, sleeping disorders, jealousy, alcohol consumption, no beta, probably more warnings but I'll update if I find more.

PAIRINGS - Steven Grant x fem!reader ; Marc Spector x fem!reader.

WORD COUNT - 25k (yes I know, I started writing a one-shot and this happened)

SUMMARY - The arrangement was to become friends with Steven Grant, that was what you'd promised to your lifelong best friend, Marc Spector; but things quickly get out of hand.

FALLEN FROM HEAVEN, GROWN ON EARTH

The ride to Steven’s workplace was calm, calmer than you had expected it to be. The driver hadn’t talked to you apart from asking where you wanted to be dropped, and you had wondered if your face was revealing that much about your current emotional state that people knew better than to bother you with small talk. You didn’t really know. And in the end, you didn’t really care either. What you did care about, though, was that you hopefully seemed nice enough not to scare a certain person away.

The taxi slowed down as it took a soft turn at the last intersection. Behind the maze of buildings that was London, the British museum emerged like a vision.

From afar, the British museum looked intimidating. That thought hadn’t changed since your last visit. It was an enormous monster in the middle of the city, a bleach type of white emerging from the road, a minotaur in the maze pushing the rest of the world outside. You couldn’t stop looking at it, but shook your head to get rid of the anxious thoughts anyways. You were about to go inside. You had work to do.

You had promised.

You decided that biting the bullet was the best way to end the nightmare soon, so you rushed inside. Maybe if you focused on the exposition it would be easier. After all, you quite liked it las time you were there with the school. At least the small cardboard pyramids didn’t look as bad as the gigantic building did, and the mummies were fairly interesting even when you didn’t have a class full of kids to keep busy and entertained.

The hall was surprisingly small, and you crossed it as quickly as you could trying not to look like a madwoman. In the exact same second that you could see the first sarcophagus in the room, majestically standing up on the floor behind their protective glass, your heart seemed to slow its pounding in your chest. The icy cold air and the ringing in your ears dissipated into the nothingness at the same time, leaving you with a warm sensation in your chest and trembling fingers.

Don’t worry, you thought to yourself. You’ve seen him a million times. You grew up together. Surely he cannot be that different, right?

In the middle of your soothing speech, a hand gently grabbed your shoulder. All your muscles instantly flexed, and suddenly your heart was back at a hundred per minute. You turned slowly as if you were about to be caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing; which was the case. But instead of a pair of brown orbs and dishevelled curls, you stood in front of a security guard.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re closing in half an hour. I thought maybe you’d like to know.”

You took a deep breath to calm yourself.

“Yeah, I’m aware of that”

He seemed confused, which was fair. The exposition was an hour-long, at least. That was without the videos and documentaries streaming in the adjacent rooms. It had taken you the whole day to reunite the strength to come here, but not just the strength; also all the doubts swirling in your mind asking if you were doing the right thing. It was an unending carousel in your head, always looking for an answer you were satisfied with and never getting one. It was madness.

You hardly knew the name of the person you were looking for, and at the same time, you had known him your whole life. You didn’t even know why you were so scared.

Fucking Marc, you sentenced. Fuck Marc and fuck my inability to say no to him.

The guard went back to his monitors, not entirely happy with your answer.

The exposition was impressive, you could give them that. Once you saw the recreation of the Great Pyramid of Giza, everything got easier. The walls were full of old artefacts behind stainless glass. If the sarcophagus were not real, and they probably weren’t, they seemed to be very accurate. Most importantly, the subject you were looking for wasn’t in his spot. Maybe he had finished sooner today. Hopefully. Maybe you could leave and create an elaborate lie for Marc. Some little white lies had never hurt anyone.

You were looking at the faded colour of one of the sarcophagus when you heard his name.

“Stevie!” it was almost a whisper, but a very loud one. “C’mon, go there and try to sell something!”

You couldn’t help but stare at the woman. After all, the word curious was something people had always associated with you. She had your whole attention as she almost shouted (whispered?) at his employer. You felt a pang in your chest as Marc… no, Steven, walked into the circular room from behind a column anxiously fixing his name tag. In exchange for her disrespect, Steven successfully whispered something back at her without looking too much into her eyes and positioned himself behind the counter. He tried to fix some of the candy and the postcards in their small glass containers, but as soon as the woman vanished he stopped and looked ahead.

His eyes locked on yours, while you were looking at him.

Swallowing every last bit of pride and listening to your self-preservation instinct, you broke free from the enchantment. Your eyes locked with the red staining the lines of the sarcophagus, except your mind was in an entirely different place. Your body was screaming at you to run, it didn't say where, just to run away from such an open room without walls to keep his eyes away from you.

You felt guilty. You felt caught red-handed. You could feel his eyes piercing you in the head and getting his hands on all your thoughts and intentions. Marc had warned you Steven was incredibly smart, after all. And he had said that if you thought you couldn't do it, it was better not to try. Steven couldn't know about Marc. Never. No. Nada.

In the pockets of your jacket, your hands became a pair of fists. And although you were stuck in place, frozen for god-knows-how-long, you managed to take a calming breath and walk slowly in the opposite direction; pretending you were looking at some scriptures that were hanging on the wall. The circles and edges of the complicated hieroglyphs caught your attention, your eyes stuck on them as you felt someone walk behind your back. The whole scene looked like something out of a horror movie.

"Are you reading those?" Steven asked, pointing at them "because if you are you must be a bloody genius."

The accent shook you to your core, even though it wasn't the first time you heard it. A sudden, soft chuckle came out of your mouth and you had to keep yourself from laughing in his face and say `My god Marc, you sound so posh".

In your mind, you were eighty-seven, in a nursing home and still making fun of Marc because of it. The image was enough to calm your nerves enough to talk. You'd have to thank him for that.

"Not really. No," you said "but I have to admit I tried..." you squinted at the black lines. "...very hard, actually."

"Well," he said, jokingly, both hands in his pockets and moving slightly on his feet as he looked back and forth from the scriptures and yourself. "You can try as hard as you want for the next twenty minutes, but I figure you won't get anything out of the bloke who wrote this just by killing the words with your looks."

His gaze shifted, slightly scanning you up and down in a quick glance; so quick and subtle you wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't been staring at him without blinking for the whole interaction.

He expected an answer, but you were so astonished by that look, the way that this person who looked so much like Marc had given you, that you had entirely forgotten the question by the time you snapped out of it. At the same time, you saw the lightbulb lightning inside his pupils and turned instantly self-conscious.

"I- I mean- I didn't mean it like that," he stumbled upon his own words, a soft laugh emanating from his lips. "I meant, you know, if looks could kill... it's a set phrase, you know?"

Something weird moved in your chest. It was something warm and fuzzy, and you couldn't help but let the feeling sink in. His struggle was cute, despite how bad it might sound.

You had never seen Marc act like that with anyone. He had always been very reserved, only talked the exact amount not to seem rude and sometimes not even that. He hurt your feelings many times and broke your heart many more. Sometimes you wondered if he even cared about you in the slightest and other times you were certain that the only person he cared about in the world was Layla. He looked at her as if she held all the answers in the universe.

Marc had never looked at you the way Steven just had. No matter how much you wished for it or how long you waited. In fact, it was obvious that he hadn't even given you a second thought. Because if he had, he would have figured out by now that you had loved him for sixteen years.

It was a thorn in your heart that you could never get rid of. No matter how many boyfriends, friends with benefits or one night stands you had. It was a lost cause.

"Don't worry, Steven," you said, trying to calm him down with a smile and getting rid of all your thoughts regarding Marc. "Of course I get it, I'm a teacher after all."

His eyes lit up at the mention of his name. It had slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it, yet it didn't really matter because he was wearing a tag with his name. Maybe next time you'd need an elaborate excuse.

There could be no more slips.

"Yeah, I recognized you. Saw you here at the beginning of the week with the primary school, right? I thought you looked familiar, but I didn't want to bother you or look like a creep."

"It's alright, you don't like a creep at all," you said, although you wondered if he was flirting or he in fact thought you looked familiar.

Maybe if he squinted very hard he could see you in Marc's memories, right? No, obviously not. If I'm gonna be doing this, I definitely need more research, you thought.

"That's good, 'cause I don't know your name and I'd like to change that."

Your gaze went straight to the floor as if something had stained your shoes. The faintest blush began to cover your cheeks and you cursed yourself for that. You introduced yourself trying not to make much eye contact, looking at the black lines on the wall instead.

'Oh, he's really good.' you thought 'How did he get in this situation, even? How is he as lonely as Marc said?'

You were seriously starting to doubt his words.

In that next instant, he quickly glanced behind him and his whole body became tense. Her boss was a blonde shadow in the back of the room, luring over him like a hawk waiting to get his next meal. At that very moment, you thanked fate that you loved your job and your superiors were mostly nice; because she looked terribly angry.

"Woah... looks like I'm in trouble here," he muttered. "It was really nice to meet you. I'll let you try to decode the rest before she eats me," he said.

Steven took a step towards the cash register and then turned back again.

"By the way-" he spoke, raising his voice. "We have wonderful stuffed gods-animals and delicious sweets on the counter."

You couldn't help but laugh. Then he took a step forward and tilted his face an inch closer to yours, completely unexpectedly. His fingertips touched your arm. You could feel the gentle pressure above the fabric of your jacket. A flash of lightning started where his fingers landed and ran up and down your spine. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, and goosebumps erupted in both your arms.

He smiled and you could have sworn that he lit up the room. Then he whispered, just for you.

"Enjoy the rest, will ya?"

You nodded.

When he turned and left your side, you physically felt your lungs deflate like a balloon. You were by yourself again, looking at meaningless black lines. You asked yourself why you had been so anxious and concerned and on the verge of a panic attack for so long. Marc had said you two would get along. He wasn't wrong.

You checked the time on your phone. You still had time but not enough to finish the exposition in the room.

'Too bad,' you thought, almost laughing. 'I'll have to come back again'

A pang reappeared in your chest, harder than ever before in the face of such a hostile fate. The fate in which you accidentally ended up falling for Marc Spector again. You breathed through it. After all, you were setting yourself for failure. You could not feel like that again. It was nonsense. You couldn't possibly make up fantasies in your head, not again.

It was exhausting to get your heart broken, but it was even worse to try and pick up the pieces of yourself from the floor and realize some were missing while others were barely splinters and impossible to reach. You couldn't do that again. You couldn't witness someone you loved break you apart again, insult your feelings and spit at your image and then ask you why you were so sensitive. You just couldn't.

You swore you would not fall in love with Steven Grant. And it only took you the realization that Marc would beat the shit out of you if you did to get convinced of your own words.

You could have ended your interactions with Steven for the rest of your life right there, tell Marc some dumb excuse and go on with your life. Hell, you could even tell Marc to fuck off and he would never bother you again. After all, he had been too busy for a while now to even call. He wouldn't realize. He wouldn't care.

However, Marc was very concerned about Steven. According to him, Steven had no one around. He had no friends, no girlfriend, no one to take care of him when he got ill, no one who missed him if he abruptly disappeared, no one to call if he found himself in trouble. Now setting Marc aside, you felt sorry for him; because he seemed like a genuinely nice person waiting to show the best of him. You just hoped you weren't making it up just because he had Marc's face.

So you could have stopped everything right there, you really could, but didn't want to.

Steven was starting to get everything into boxes when you approached the counter. To say you were nervous would've been an understatement because you were about to ask him for a date, and you had never been the type to ask guys on dates, not in high school and certainly not after, but fate had a fun way to mess with things, especially with your things. You had no doubts about that. You couldn't possibly find any other way of getting to know him and getting his phone number.

"I'd like one of these," you said, taking in your hands one of the stuffed animals. It was a hippo, or so you thought. You tried to read her name on the label. "What's his name... Uhm.. tawel-"

"Taweret," he answered, a grin on his face. "Egyptian goddess of childbirth and fertility. Certainly not towell. And her pronouns..." he pointed at her raising his eyebrows "...are she/her."

Steven took it from your hands and put it in a bag. He gave it to you and leaned over the counter until his chest almost hit the surface.

"Oh, wow. You really are passionate about this"

"I am," he answered. "It's a bit of an odd hobby to have, but I mean some people like football."

He chuckled first and then you couldn't help but follow. Would he ever stop being so goofy? You hoped not. Being Steven's friend could be easier than you expected.

"How much is it?"

"This round's on the house."

Your jaw slightly dropped, your lips parted. "Oh, that's really not neccessary."

"It's not, but I want to," he said. "You seem like a really nice person."

"Tell that to my students, they are wishing a get in a car wreck or something."

He laughed, then ran a hand through his hair seemingly anxious and took the receipt out of the cash register. With a pen, he started writing something in it.

"I was wondering if- well..." you started. "...if you'd like to go for a beer, or coffee or whatever, some time."

Steven stopped writing, his head shot up.

"Sorry..." he said, mumbling, the accent was music to your ears. "Are you asking me out? Like... I'm not going to say no, but I was writing my number here hoping..." his gaze shifted between the receipt and your face. "...woah, yeah, sure. Coffee or tea is fine. We can do that."

It had been easier than you thought it'd be, and you couldn't believe your luck when you saw his number and name written on the receipt.

Problems started with the next step of the plan; hanging out. Steven was difficult in that aspect, and you started to understand why others seemed reluctant to form a meaningful relationship with him. After work, you had plenty of free time that you silently loathed, so it wasn’t difficult —at least on your part— to meet your lifelong group of friends and coworkers. You figured finding time for a date and eventually getting to know Steven would be effortless, but that was far from the truth.

For the first date, you had chosen something informal, just grabbing up some coffee on a Saturday afternoon; but he never showed up. You dialled his number and called. He picked up the phone on the last ring.

"Steven?"

"No, Marc."

On the other end of the line, he breathed heavily in short quick breaths.

"You got his number, that's a start. Congratulations."

He said it in a way that made you feel bad about it. Which was fine to an extent, because forcing a friendship out of pure pity and lying was the last thing anyone wanted. But the charismatic, kind and fun nature of Steven made it feel as if you had known him your whole life —which wasn't technically a lie— so at the end of the day it was easy not to think much about it. Besides, you figured that at least part of that guilt was completely justified.

"Don't say it like that," you said. "We were supposed to be meeting for coffee. Twenty minutes ago. So you, Steven, you're body, whatever are late."

"Can't right now," he said.

A loud thud filled the line. A shuddered breath, the sound of metal clacking and something crushing.

"What is that sound? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm busy at the moment. I'm confident Steven will make it up to you later somehow. Bye."

And just like that, he hung up.

Marc had never been the social type. Already in high school, he had loved a good friendly get-together to get drunk on cheap beer and play cards; but he didn't like parties with loud music; especially if he didn't understand the lyrics. He loved renting films on Blockbuster and watching them on his then brand-new VHS player, and if he did it with the right person, he also loved everything that followed.

Despite not being very social, he was certainly not ugly. He was no Casanova and had no desire for it, but he found out pretty soon in life that if he wanted he could have any girl he liked. That is, if he actually put just a little bit of effort into not being a dick.

He got too drunk once, and you suspected that also high. His brown irises were completely engulfed by his pupils. Both of you were on the end-of-school-year trip to Brighton. It was his last year in college (Marc was a year behind what he was supposed to), and you had just started it, but lived as if it was your last because most of your friends were Marc's age and you didn't really care. He appeared from nowhere in the lounge of the hostel and pulled your arm up from where you were seated on the floor. It was so sudden and violent that you almost slapped him in front of everyone. However, your anger quickly dissipated when you saw the state he was in. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair messy with curls pointing out in all directions; his soul lost somewhere in the empty space between you and him.

"I need to talk to you for a second," he whispered.

Some of your classmates, who you were talking to before he showed up, tried to convince you not to go, worried about his state, but they ultimately gave you a look of disbelief as you left. By then you had already known Marc for a few years and he was your closest friend. You knew they were worried he would hurt you, but they didn't know Marc at all, not like you did.

He did apologize once you were outside, but didn't say anything until the beach was visible. He took a seat on a bench on the promenade, facing the sea. You sat next to him, crossing your legs on the bench on a warm summer night; and waited.

His eyes welled up with tears without saying a word, and your nerves spiked up. Something had to go horribly wrong for him to act that way. You had never seen him cry before. So you did the only thing you could, you hugged him, squeezing him in your arms as if you could make anything that might cause him the slightest discomfort disappear. You knew you couldn't, but you had to try anyway.

You let him go eventually. Marc gave a long sigh, trying to get his pieces together. And he spoke.

"I left my parents' house last week," he said, solemnly as he watched the waves break against the shore. "And I'm not going to uni. I'm going to join the military."

You had the awful realization that being drunk and high was the only way Marc was able to open up to you. The pang in your stomach became unbearable, the pain blooming there threatening to open a wound that would never close. Tears began to stream down your face without warning. Marc broke crying again, covering his face with his hands. Your arms surrounded his whole figure, even though he was much bigger and taller.

Until then, you had a clear image of what your future would look like. At least for the next three years following college. You wanted to apply to London Met when you finished A-Levels, to pursue teaching. Marc, on the other hand, had always been unsure about his options; but he had never even considered doing anything other than university. The thought of the two of you living in the same student flat or even in the same building on campus kept you up at night sometimes. You'd often surprise yourself by searching for rent prices, figuring out which areas in London were best to live in. How wonderful would it be to wake up in the same house as your best friend? To talk for endless hours about your hopes and dreams and fears and nightmares and stories you've told each other a thousand times; to come back home wasted from a party, have a bowl of cereal and attend classes only half sober. He was reluctant as to look way too much into the future, Marc was a pessimist as good as they come, yet at some point, he had declared that he would happily do all the cleaning and laundry as long as he didn't have to cook anything other than a sandwich.

Now the image was shattered, broken, as each tear and sob tore your throat apart. Still, your eyes didn't leave Marc's now small figure as you cried. You were frightened that if you did something as insignificant as blinking he would disappear into thin air. It was the first time in your life Marc Spector had actually looked his own age, his own personality and demons looming over him and often making his features sharper, darker and overall angrier than he really was.

Then it happened.

His hands fell from his face and landed on the bench. His fingers gripped the metal under his flesh as if it was his only anchor to the human world. The vein in his neck swelled, his pulse clearly visible from where you watched. His face twitched as if he had taken a bite out of a lemon. His eyes rolled back to his head.

"Marc?"

Pure panic, as a hot white flame, rushed through your veins and infected every cell of your body. The world around you gave a sudden turn around you as you reached for him, burying your nails in the tender flesh of his shoulder.

"Marc!"

As soon as it started, it stopped. His features changed, and his beautiful dark eyes appeared again. They had a glint you couldn't quite comprehend, one you could only describe as the look children had in a toy store. It was subtle, very subtle, something you'd have missed if you weren't leaning over him, one hand on his shoulder and the other not-so-gently grabbing his face.

He mumbled something you didn't discern. All you could hear back then was your pulse beating behind your ears and your gasps for air. The image was burned into your eyelids forever. That night you'd have nightmares about it.

"Are you alright, Marc?" you asked.

He squinted, bewildered and petrified at the same time. Then turned his face away and Marc fronted once more. That was the first time he told anyone about his DID, and the first time he got some comfort about it. That was, also, the first time you heard about Steven Grant.

The army posted him two weeks later and Marc left without saying goodbye, only calling you after he landed and just before reaching the out-of-range area. During those two weeks, Mr Spector called your home landline every other day. You refused to pick up the phone. He was a reasonable man, a good man. At least that was what your mother said each time, after hanging up the phone on a desperate father in the search for his son.

"I'm sorry, Mr Spector. She doesn't know where he is. No. She doesn't know. No, she will not do that. I hope your son gets in touch with you soon. I'm sorry. Bye."

Saturday passed and at midday on Sunday, there he was. Steven calling. The phone hadn't reached your ear yet but you could already hear his apologies.

"I'm so so sorry," he said, his voice quick and reverberating and stumbling over his own words. "I don't know what happened. I think I slept through the whole day yesterday. Please don't hate me."

It broke your heart to hear him talk like that about himself, and given the fact that Marc would quite literally kill you if you said anything to Steven about him, your hands were tied.

"It's okay, Steven. You must've been very tired. Surely you needed it."

It took him a solid minute to respond.

"Oh, Woah... I actually thought you'd be fuming," he said. "As in I-don't-want-to-see-you-ever again fuming. Don't get me wrong, I-"

"Steven," you interrupted, playing with the remote's battery cover in your other hand. "I swear I'm not mad at you. Actually, I was a bit late and thought you had left already," you lied.

"Oh, god" he answered, he let out a soft relieved laugh. "Sounds like a hell of a date right? You know...we can grab some Starbucks near the museum in an hour or so- I mean, if you fancy it."

You shook your head at his words, the smile on your lips not wearing off for a second, and thanked the universe that he wasn't looking. Steven was too much of a nervous wreck sometimes. You took a mental note about it. That was something so unlike Marc that it was even comical that they were, in a way, the same person.

"See you in an hour, Steven."

"Alright, yes! See you."

Steven was still wearing his name tag when you met him at the museum's front door, which fought the urge to call him Marc when he appeared in your field of vision. Despite that, you absorbed every detail about his features to find out if it was actually Steven or not; you didn't want to fuck up.

It wasn't difficult to differentiate them, not when Steven held a box of chocolates close to his chest and he had two coffees to go waiting on the base of one of the museum's columns.

"I'm so glad you could make it," he said. His smile was genuine, you didn't get used to seeing it on his face.

His greeting was a quick hug, too quick for your liking. Despite being a completely different person and sounding like one, Steven still smelled like Marc. That, is, at least behind the smell of the rubbing alcohol at the entrance of the building. There was a desire burning for Marc's closeness somewhere near your heart, in that tiny spot where you always felt it empty no matter what you were doing. His fingers were hot against your cold skin.

"I'm so sorry about yesterday," he said once it was over. Even though you tried to talk him out of it, he didn't let you. "No. No. Don't be nice. It was a bummer for ya, you don't have to hide it. I brought you a little something to make up for it."

You took the box of chocolates and couldn't help but think that Steven could be a dream for someone whose love language was gift-giving. The stuffed hippo he gave you was now one of your favourite things, along with The Killers' concert tickets Marc got you for your birthday after the last time he came back from Egypt.

"You didn't have to. Thank you very much."

"You're very much welcome," he answered, his brown eyes shining. "I have thirty minutes I saved from my lunch break, forty if Donna doesn't catch me; 'til then I'm all yours."

The confession shouldn't be as cute as it was. The fact that he didn't have time for you and still made an effort to create it was a kind gesture that you were not used to. It was well-known the fact that people who want to see you, will go out of their way to do it, even if they have scarce time for you. You'd hear it everywhere, even from your friend's mouths, but had never actually experienced it. In the end, you were the one to always say it was okay when others cancelled plans or when Marc said he was busy, which had been a daily occurrence even after he left the military.

You took a sip out of your coffee, and you had to admit it was better than what you usually ordered

"I didn't know how you liked it so..."

"It's perfect, really."

"Good," he said, nodding and looking at the stairs as he hid a smile. He was just mumbling to himself. "Yeah... that's perfect."

Steven was going to kill you with his awkwardness, in the best of senses. He grabbed his coffee and the two of you turned and walked away from the building. He was still wearing his name tag.

"Steven," you called him, stopping in your tracks for a second, your hand gently touching his elbow to make him stop as well. "Let me help you with that."

He frowned and for the first time he looked a bit similar to your childhood best friend. You took the tag out of his ash-coloured jacket, careful not to poke him with the sharp end of the pin, and when you tilted your head to look into his eyes, there were merely a few inches of empty space between the both of you. Steven's lips opened slightly, his eyes fixed on yours and red blood taking away the paleness in his light brown skin.

You wanted to stay right there. Steven had a twinkle in his eyes that you couldn't get out of your head, a way about him that you can't help but be drawn to. You couldn't understand how others didn't see it, as difficult as his circumstances were, you couldn't quite understand that no one wanted to befriend him just because he had some small flaws.

You extended the pin to him, who looked at it in bewilderment and put it away after thanking you.

You can't fall in love with Steven Grant, you told yourself. But knew it was already a matter of time before your ultimate fall. It was impossible not to be attracted to him physically, you dreamed of kissing his cheeks and long lashes and burying your fingers in his curls. And for what little time you had spent together, you knew his personality was awkward and somehow also calm and kind, and that was something you liked as well. You'd seen him talk to several of your students, sell sweets with a smile and return lost phones. Back then you'd been so impressed by the sight of him that you didn't dare to get any closer, but the kids laughed and asked and talked and despite not being a guide, the kids referred to him as such when they got back on the school bus.

You just hoped you weren't making everything up just because you loved Marc, or still loved Marc. No, loved. That's right. Past tense.

It only took you another date, this time in a vegan restaurant in Soho, to realize you actually liked him. And not in a friendly way. More in a we've-talked-for-five-hours-and-the-waiter-is-kicking-us-out kind of way. You drank wine until you felt like figuring out what colour Steven's sheets were; despite promising yourself you wouldn't get drunk in case the word Marc spilt out of your mouth by accident. It didn't. Maybe Marc didn't give you much thought, but Steven definitely did, and wasn't that everything you'd dreamed of? Happiness looked real nice on Steven. You didn't want to break that for anything in the world.

Just before leaving he excused himself to the bathroom; and after waiting for a while, you decided to do the same thing. It wasn't your intention, but the walls were thin enough that you distinguished Steven's weird accent without effort, and as drunk as you were, you didn't have the morals nor the self-discipline not to eavesdrop

"You have to meet her, mom," he said. "She's absolutely gorgeous, I swear. I'll bring her soon. I mean... if she stays long enough..." a long pause. "Uhmm, sorry for that. Yeah, forget it. I drank a bit. Yeah, I know, me drinking. Pfff. Anyways, she's awesome. I think you'll love her. Looks a lot like an actress but I can't quite think of who, maybe that's why she looked so familiar the first time. I have to go now, she's waiting. Love you. Laters, gators."

It was a stroke of luck that there was no one else in the toilets because the alcohol made you start crying. Marc didn't talk to his mom, never had, really. And now certainly he couldn't. Marc's dad called you when the shiva for Marc's mother started. He didn't attend, and his dad wanted him to have someone by his side. You figured he didn't have Layla's phone or he'd have called her, and you weren't even sure he knew that Marc had gotten married.

That call was everything Marc always wished for but never could. You wondered who was Steven calling, and which number he dialled. You didn't even know how the whole thing worked, what was the arrangement, how Marc was so good at it that Steven never noticed any traces of Marc in his life.

You splashed water on your face, but that didn't take away the sadness or the alcohol boiling under your flesh. You hoped Steven didn't notice. He did anyways.

"Hey, what happened?" he was on his feet as soon as he saw your face. You hated it. "What's wrong, love?"

His hot callous fingers caressed your red cheeks. He took the wet baby hairs out of your face and tucked them behind.

"I drank too much, I'm so sorry"

He hugged you and blamed himself for filling the glasses so many times. Of course, you denied it.

"Let's get out of here, alright?" He said, left some notes on the table, took your handbag and carried it.

His arm tried to embrace you and pull you close to him as you walked out of the restaurant. You backed off, suddenly feeling like a child in need of comfort —and refused to feel that way—, but he didn't take it like that. The hurt showed on his face, in his pressed lips, in the way he walked next to you at a safe distance.

Your fingers slid around his wrist and curled around his fingers once you crossed the entrance, and a small dimple appeared again. It was so easy to make him happy, you liked how effortless everything was. He stopped in his tracks.

"Everything alright?" he whispered, slurring his words.

You nodded profusely, more than you should have. Your sight fell on his shoulder — for some reason— and you couldn't help but leave a kiss there.

Steven's breath was caught in his throat.

It's so easy.

He leaned against you, still holding your hand as an anchor. He ran his fingertips along the back of your neck, and pulled you closer to him slowly. He left a chaste kiss on your forehead.

Squeezing your eyes shut, a different kind of warmth spread through your body, different from the uncomfortable hotness of wine. Letting go of his hand, you grabbed the fabric of his shirt above his ribs, fighting the urge to slide your hand under it. You wanted him a little bit closer, but he took a step forward and you had to take one back, you hit the wall. His fingers still hidden in your hair.

He silently gasped, his laborious breathing against your cheek, the smell of wine in his breath, his lips parted.

"M-May I kiss you now?" he said. His eyes closed shut, nervously, his forehead pressing onto yours. His hot breath sweet over your own lips.

A soft chuckle came out of your chest. You leaned over him and left a kiss there, where his neck and jaw found each other.

He gasped, hard.

"You don't have to ask, Steven."

Even though he had warned you, you didn't see it coming. His kisses were supposed to be calm, loving, at least you had imagined them as such. Instead, he furiously joined your mouths, a moan reverberating in the depths of your throat as he grabbed both sides of your face and lifted you to have more access. You thought of returning the favour and buried your fingers in his hair and pulled. The moan he let out was animalistic, his breath was hot in your mouth as he quivered and it became raggered a second later.

If Steven didn't kill you, you for sure were.

His forehead pressed against yours. With his eyes closed, he kissed you on the lips once more, and then your cheek. You took a deep breath, drunk in every way.

"Thank you," he whispered. "You've no idea how long I've waited for that."

Oh, Steven, if you knew.

"I'd take you home if we weren't so drunk," you mumbled, although you hadn't meant to say it out loud.

It was pure delight to see his eyes get drowned in the darkness of desire. A look so strange and new in him and still, the naive glint didn't leave.

"On the second date?" he whispered, the tip of his tongue wetting his lower lip. "People do that?"

"This is our third, technically, but yeah, they do," you chuckled.

Steven shook his head and apologized before taking a step back. You wondered why he was saying sorry for, but then he looked down and you could see exactly why. It was impossible to take your eyes out of him, of how big he seemed even with jeans on. It was an astonishing surprise to still find out things that belonged to Marc —in part— that you didn't have a clue about.

Steven closed his eyes shut and tried to hide the bulge in his trousers by standing face to the wall. Redness engulfed all his features in a split second. "Think about deserts, think about deserts," he mumbled.

You can’t stop looking at his face.

“It’s easier if you think about our English teacher in college”

As soon as your lips stopped moving, you felt every organ in your body descend to the core of Earth. Your skin tingled uncomfortably and you felt yourself start shaking. The comforting smile on your face vanished completely. The dimly lit street gave a soft turn around the confused look of Steven.

“That actually works, mine was a nightmare,” he chuckled. “But you said our.”

You frowned on purpose and took your sight to somewhere behind him. You were not the best liar and hated to look at people’s eyes when you had to become one, but that probably only made you look more suspicious. Then you looked back at his face.

“I didn’t.”

“Actually you did,” he said, all smiles. Every muscle in your body relaxed, slowly. And all the blood in your feet seemed to go back where it belonged. He kissed your cheek. “It’s okay, it’s the alcohol talking. I guess every English teacher’s butters,” he said, then he looked down and grabbed your hand. “Yezz, look at you. You’re shivering.”

“Am I?”

Your voice was almost a whisper, and again, you shouldn’t have said that. In your defense, the world was a bit blurry, everything still doing circles around you even with your eyes closed. Steven took his coat and placed it over your shoulders.

“I’ll cab us home, yeah?” he says, his voice was calm and kind with a touch of worry. “You can stay at mine”

“No.”

“It’s okay. I’ll give you my bed.” Steven said “I don’t even sleep much, I promise. It just doesn’t feel right to leave you alone now.”

Before you could think about where you were heading, Steven was already opening the front door of an old building in Brixton; which you had no idea of. Last time you had been in Marc's house, it was also Layla's. And after that, you had only met Marc a few times, always in cheap cafés or bars after the sun had set.

Once he opened the door of his flat, he stepped aside and gestured with his hand for you to come in. It was almost a bow. "Welcome, my lady."

His flat was a one-bed studio without walls. It had a bookcase in the middle of the room, full of books and vintage decorative figurines, although it was fair to say the entirety of his home looked like the backroom of any library with more than fifty years. Although the sheer amount of clutter made it look dirty, it really wasn't. It was cosy and inviting, but also a comfortable and disorganized mess. You took off your heels before you had hardly taken a step into the flat.

"Give me a second, yeah?" he said, his smile trembling over his lips. "I have to hoover first. It's a bother, I know. Stay there."

You couldn't stop but frown at his words. "Steven, what are you talking about? I don't care about that."

You wondered if he was about to laugh, and followed him. He scratched the back of his neck, turned on his heels and quickly walked. Then you saw it.

The shelves were blocking your vision, but not anymore. His bed was barely a mattress on the floor inside a wooden structure with four columns, almost like a cage. And around it, a circle of sand. You stood there, feeling confused and awkward at the same time.

"Steven, why do you...?"

"It's just a second, sorry," he said, as he struggled to take the hoover out of a small wardrobe with cleaning supplies.

"Steven, Steven," you caressed his shoulder in a comforting manner but failed at trying to take his attention. "Please, leave that alone and look at me."

He did after a few seconds, and stepped aside when you asked him to. You left everything inside and closed the door behind you.

"That's an awful lot of sand."

He replied crestfallen, with both hands behind his back, as if he had just been caught doing something he shouldn't and punishment was about to be announced. "I know."

"It's okay, it's your flat. I'm just curious about it."

He bit the inside of his cheek and finally looked at you, a look of embarrassment plastered all over himself. Then he sighed, his shoulders falling like a dead weight. He started walking towards the kitchen.

"Fancy a cuppa?"

You followed him, and he served a cup of tea for both of you. He left them on the table and fetched two glasses of water as well.

"I have a sleeping disorder," he said. His fingers were trembling around the cup, and his eyes looked at you almost waiting to read your body language. "I sleepwalk sometimes. And other times I sleep for more than ten hours and still manage to be exhausted. I have dreams, very vivid dreams. And-"

You took one of his hands in yours. He was going to break the cup if he kept imprinting his fingers in it. You held his hand, and he frowned at you, the corners of his mouth turned down. He looked just like Marc.

"Nightmares?" you asked.

The lines on his forehead became deeper as he recalled his memories. "I wouldn't say nightmares. Well, yes, sometimes they are; but they don't usually feel like nightmares. I don't know."

You wondered if it had something to do with Marc, with the fact that he also had to have some kind of life beyond all the time Steven took to live his.

"Look, I know I'm a walking red flag," he pressed his open hands to his forehead. "But I promise I'm not bonkers, I just have a little trouble sleeping. I use the sand and the restraints to check I haven't left the bed during the night, that's all. I know it's crazy to have strains on the bed..."

"I didn't say that."

His eyes shot open, and the most incredulous and relieved laugh you had ever heard left his mouth. You couldn't help but chuckle as well.

"Oh, you didn't just say that," he replied.

The atmosphere was light again between both of you. His frown had vanished from his features. Steven's face was Steven's once again; with his bright dark orbs, raised eyebrows and little smiles. His shivers had stopped almost entirely, you could notice by the way his hands rested over the table and you couldn't stop yourself from taking one of them in yours. He looked at both your fingers, yours on top of his as you slowly traced a path to his palm. You witnessed how his sight lost focus for a few seconds, and waited until his eyes fell on you again to talk.

"Steven, we all have problems, but that doesn't mean we don't deserve love and understanding," his brows frowned slightly, while his puppy face remained; he was trying not to cry. "If someone, anyone, denies them to you, just because you're not perfect, you're simply asking the wrong person. There are plenty of people out there who'd love you for the very same things other people would despise you for..."

He wiped away a treacherous tear with his free hand and you kissed the back of the other.

"...and that's okay. Not everyone has to like you, you don't like everyone either. Some are just pricks."

Another chuckle. Another tear. He wiped it away and covered both his eyes with his palms. He sighed, hard. He seemed tired as his shoulders fell.

"God, I shouldn't be crying my eyes out."

Getting up from your chair, you left a chaste kiss on his cheek. Your arms went around his shoulders from behind, and you couldn't help but leave another kiss on his temple.

Steven was suffering, and it was something you had never thought about. Since you had met him in person you had begun to understand him a little, but before that, since Brighton, you had never thought of Steven as a person who lived and suffered. The few times you had thought of him before —because Marc never talked about it again—, you had imagined Steven as a drugged version of Marc: a quiet boy, almost like a rag doll o a puppet, who took all the pain that Marc couldn't bear without complaint, taking and taking like a punching bag. Feeling no discomfort, no pain.

The more you got to know him, the more you realised that Steven embodied the best parts of Marc. No, not the best parts of Marc, the best parts of himself. He was a wonderful man, shy and charismatic at the same time. Talkative and awkward and a true gentleman who opened doors for you and bowed and laughed a lot.

You could love him, and that was not even a new realization, but you had never felt it as true. Steven didn't have to do any of the things he did to be charming, and yet it was part of his persona, part of what Steven really was. Marc and he shared a body, maybe half a life and time on this Earth, but nothing else.

Steven Grant was unique, without a doubt one of the most beautiful souls in the universe. And you thought you might regret it tomorrow, but Marc would have to get used to it if things went further. Maybe you could find a way he could understand. He had to. The possibility of him reacting badly tied a knot in your stomach that made you suffocate with every passing second. He was still your best friend. And you still loved him too.

Steven stood up from the chair, took both cups and left them in the empty sink. His face was as red as it could, his nose a bright red colour and eyelids wet by the tears. He put his hands on his hips and sighed.

"You should go to bed. I'll lend you a t-shirt to sleep in if you want," he said, looking at the black dress you were wearing.

Steven opened a drawer in the space that belonged to his bedroom and took a t-shirt and a pair of grey joggers. You took them from his hands.

"Thank you," you whispered. "I really shouldn't be here."

"That's bollocks, you can come here whenever you want."

He ran one hand over his eyes again, even though there were no tears.

You didn't say anything back because he had no idea of what was happening, but you knew you shouldn't be there. The closer you got to Steven the more you liked him, and you had never stayed the night at Marc's. Never. You wondered what would happen if Marc fronted in the middle of the night and found you sleeping there. Maybe you could come up with something. Either way, you squeezed your eyes shut, tried to shake off the feeling and finished getting dressed.

You had wrapped the elastic of your pyjama bottoms around your hips, but you could still step on some of the fabric. The T-shirt was beyond repair, but you usually slept in T-shirts and sweatshirts two sizes too big anyway, so that was fine.

"It's so big on me," you said, jokingly as you walked out of the bathroom.

You caught him getting dressed too. He was just pulling his t-shirt over his shoulders when you opened the door. From where you stood, the views were immaculate. The muscles in his back stretched and contracted before he pulled the t-shirt over his shoulders. His bottoms were a tartan printed pyjamas.

"Maybe you should just... jump right into bed," he said, now approaching you and glancing at the sand on the floor. "You know, don't get your feet full of sand. I'll be in the living room. Having fun with..." he joked as he took a book from his desk and showed it to you. Egyptian Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Goddesses, and Traditions of Ancient Egypt. "...Mrs Pinch."

You got into bed without jumping, somehow, taking a long step from the floor to his bed. Steven stood closer as you did, almost grabbing your arm to help you. Before he could turn on his heels and leave, you kneeled on his bed, right in front of him. His eyes were still glossy from the crying.

"Try and get some sleep," you said. He gave a long sigh and shook his head.

"It's better if I don't."

"Please, Steven..." you almost begged. "Get in here with me, just try, I'll leave when you fall asleep."

You saw the doubt in his eyes, the indecision, but also the fear below all of that. Finally, he shook his head again.

"Maybe we could try next time, if you still feel like it," He raised the book in the air and gave you a smile. "I have a second date tonight, don't be too jealous."

"Why don't you read to me, then?"

He considered it for a brief second, then he instructed you to get comfortable under the sheets while he locked the front door. Steven turned off all the lights except for the kitchen lights, which plunged the room into semi-darkness, but still bright enough to read. He also took a long stripe of blue tape and stuck it just above the locks in the door. Then he got into bed.

You laid on your side, looking at him. His pillows smelled of him. It was a pleasant smell, the same smell that had flooded your nostrils when you had kissed his jaw earlier, only with less cologne. He didn't get under the covers. Instead, he crossed his legs on the mattress and leaned a little towards the headboard. He almost looked like a tall child.

He gave you a quick glance from the text, almost waiting for you to stop him; but you didn't.

"Let me know if you get tired of me."

He smiled, half-joking, but you knew he was been very serious about it. Then he started reading.

"Originally the Egyptian reverenced on God only whose likeness was never represented, “he is being worshipped in silence. His characteristics, however..."

The next thing you knew, you were woken up by the morning light, slowly and calmly, bit by bit regaining consciousness of the context around you. It was an odd feeling, not to wake up in your own room, or by the loud noise of your alarm app, to see a different ceiling and furniture around you. In the usual morning amnesia, you looked under the sheets to check if you were still dressed. You were, but those clothes weren't yours.

You got up, and there was something yellow in your vision for a second. It was so sudden that you wondered if a ray of sunlight just blinded you, but then you looked at your lap and saw it. It was a sticky note. It was probably on the headboard before it peeled off from the headboard.

We need to talk. -Marc.

It was raining when you left your own studio that evening, and it was almost nine when you got to your destination, a cafe just a few blocks from Steven's flat. Marc had chosen it because it was the only one in the area which stayed open until half-past ten.

By then you had been ignoring his calls for thirty-six hours, which should have been easy given the fact that Marc barely used his phone anymore, but he had called you twice yesterday and you had ignored them, giving him some excuse about having too many assignments to grade. It wasn't a lie, he had to understand that you had a life beyond him and Steven. And you knew nothing about Steven, so you guessed Marc hadn't given up the body yet.

You couldn't help but wonder how poor Steven managed not to get fired or get burnout from work if every time he had a free day Marc decided it was his time to reappear. It was incredibly selfish of him to let Steven earn the money for both of them. After all, as far as you were concerned, Marc had been unemployed since he left the military.

You weren't looking forward to meeting him, because you knew once you did, you'd have to tell lies. You couldn't possibly tell him about the kiss. You would, eventually, once you knew how to address the situation; but you didn't want to. Losing Marc was something you'd never forgive yourself for happening, and abandoning Steven now didn't seem like a good choice to make, at all. On the other hand, however, Marc had been extremely vague about the arrangement you two shared, you needed to know how the whole thing worked; for their sake as well as yours. You needed to know what to expect from Steven and Marc, when to worry if any of them vanished for too long, how the fronting thing worked, how he managed to figure out everything from Steven's life when Steven wasn't even aware that Marc existed.

At the end of the day, you couldn't postpone meeting him anymore. It had been two weeks already, two wonderful weeks with your phone full of good-morning texts and calls lasting as much as two hours. You had hoped to have Steven as a friend, but he was too much of a boyfriend material.

Your eyes were fixed on Marc even before you got in.

The cold air suddenly disappeared from your cheeks. The cafe was cosy, but the heat inside was almost sultry. You could see it in the navy T-shirt Marc was wearing. You both came prepared for the heat, you had been there before.

He subtly waved at you as you walked in. The table he had chosen was in a corner, away from everything and everyone even though the place was half empty. It was the same table you had been to other times, and you wondered if the waiters —who most certainly already knew your face— wondered if any of you was cheating on your partners.

You walked to the table asking all the gods, the universe, and whatever else was out there to please not trip over your own feet. The last time you had been this nervous about meeting Marc, he was getting married in Cairo.

He greeted and rose up from his chair to hug you. The hug was short-lived but much needed, yet you couldn't help but wonder if he could hear the frantic beating of your own heart against his chest.

"I'm not gonna beat around the bush, I want you to answer a simple yes or no question," he asked.

There he was, direct and blunt as a knife. There was no hesitation, no trembling in his hands. His accent almost came up weird now, that American accent that he had not left in Illinois when he moved to the UK in his teenage years and never quite vanished.

"Are you and Steven together?"

That was too easy of a question.

"We obviously are not," you replied, but he still waited in silence. "If you're wondering why I stayed in his flat, we had dinner and I got drunk. I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted that he didn't feel good about me getting home by myself."

He rolled his eyes and drank a sip of his black coffee.

"You're quite the grown-up."

You ordered your own tea and waited until the waiter left to keep up the conversation.

"Yeah, I am, but this is still London and I'm still a woman. So there's that."

Marc left his coffee on the table and leaned back in his chair, resting both elbows on the backrest. That's when his eyes scanned you, maybe he wasn't buying your half-truths. You kept your eyes on his until it was ridiculous how long you kept looking at each other.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing. I just don't think you've ever stayed at mine."

You chuckled, that was easy to respond to. The waiter left your cup of tea in front of you and you took a sip out of plain curiosity, a smile still lingering on your lips. Then you looked at him through your lashes.

"Are you jealous, Marc?" you asked him, his mocking smile soon turned into a thin line. "Don't worry, I'm sure we can have a... how is it? a slumber party some time."

You thought he would laugh at your imitation, but he did not. He gave you a look, the most disgusted look you'd ever seen on his face.

"Did you fuck him?" his angry gaze pierced your soul, his elbows pressing into the table as he leaned over it. "Because I don't know if you're aware, but Layla and I aren't officially divorced yet."

Low blow. Fucking moron.

"I'm obviously not aware of that because you never talk to me anymore."

"You didn't answer my fucking question.”

A wry laugh bubbled up from your throat. Rage reddened your face with every passing second, you could feel the blood under the skin of your face, burning and boiling. You didn't know whether to tell him to fuck off or what. It was his fault that you were in this bizarre predicament, to begin with. Your muscles were stuck in place, you knew the answer to his question, but the fact he was asking was simply insulting. He didn't own you and neither did he own Steven.

"You know what, fuck you, Marc," you rose up from the chair and smashed the palms of your hands against the table. "If I knew you'd turn into a freaking child I wouldn't have signed up to all of this. Now I'm basically lying to someone who has done nothing but treat me with respect. I cannot say the same about you."

You left the place in a hurry, without even thinking about the bill you left behind. He called your name but you didn't give him any attention. Yet Marc still ran behind you and grabbed your arm once you were outside. You got rid of his grip and smacked his arm. He did not wince.

"Don't follow me, Spector" you warned. "I'm tired of you."

It did seem to pain. He grimaced as if he had been hit, blinked repeatedly and clenched his jaw.

"You do not understand," he almost growled. "I just needed to make sure of it. I don't want to hurt you, I don't want you to get hurt in any way. I did say I shouldn't ask you for such a big commitment, but he is very alone. I was scared he would end up hurting himself. I knew you two would get along. There's no one who could not like you, (y/n)," he said. "You can't imagine how much I freaked out when I woke up and saw you next to me."

His words hurt, so much so that you wondered why on earth you were still listening to a word that came out of his mouth. The thought of Steven hurting himself in any way was hard to swallow. You couldn't even begin to imagine such a sweet soul giving up on all the joy this life could bring him, of all the people he would indeed meet, all the people that had and would love him, all the experiences fate still kept for him.

Then you had Marc's words. Did it hurt so much to wake up next to you that he had to leave? Was it so hard for him to look at your sleepy face in the morning? Did he find you that disgusting?

"I will keep on seeing Steven," you said. "Not because of you, but because he genuinely has become a good friend," you finished. "I won't apologize for how disgusting you find me, though."

He looked down. From that angle, he looked like a lost soul. He was absolutely drenched now, his curls sticking up to his warm skin, the ends dripping, the jacket now a shade darker because of the rain. Marc shook his head and looked back at you.

"I didn't mean it like that," he mumbled. "I didn't..." his lips formed a thin line as he thought what to say. "Look, it's complicated. I am not always aware of him or his surroundings, but I am aware of his feelings because I can feel them too. You have to be only friends. I know I'm been annoying about it but it simply cannot happen."

You gave a long sigh and pushed both you and him under the awning of another nearby restaurant. You tried not to think about his words.

"You're right Marc, I don't understand. I don't know what you're doing" you confessed. "I don't know how the whole thing works, but it's straight-up ruining both of your lives. He's alone, not because he wants to, or because people find him irritanting, but because he can't commit to anyone, because he lives in a constant nightmare in which he does not know when or where he's waking up."

"I'm not saying it's easier for you," you whispered as some pedestrians walked near the scene. "But at least you know what's happening. You used to live your own life, now he is the one doing it most of the time. He will eventually find out, so you should talk to him, however that works. Steven already thinks he's a lunatic," you said, as you remembered your conversation that night. "And I can't possibly understand how could you expect him to be happy in these conditions."

Marc bit his lip and took his eyes away from you and into the road.

"So you have talked that much, uh?" he crossed his arms over his chest. "I knew all the calls couldn't be about the weather."

You stood there for a minute in silence, not knowing what else to say.

"Things are getting out of hand, I know I'll have to do it at some point," he said. "I just can't right now. I need him to be calm and happy while I figure some shit out."

You frowned at his words, nervousness and curiosity equally dancing in the pit of your stomach.

"And what is that?" you asked, but when he did not respond you tried to guess. "Is it about Layla?"

He shook his head. "It's more complicated than that."

"You know you can tell me anything that's bothering you, Marc," you whispered, reassuringly. You actively fought the urge to caress the back of his head. "I'll try to help you. We've known each other for so long, it is actually insulting that you don't trust me yet."

Marc smiled and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Then he looked at you and the glint in his eyes sent you off balance. It wasn't naive like Steven's, it was different. You couldn't quite tell why or what differentiated them.

"I know," a pause. "I know I can, and I will once it's over. I promise."

Marc was not a person who used to make promises, let alone empty ones. Throughout your life, he had made you perhaps a handful of them, and he had always kept them to this day. He took his word very seriously, it was a matter of pride.

So you believed him.

The staff room was almost empty two weeks later, as it was lunchtime and most of the teachers were in the school cafeteria. It was torture to be there alone, with only one of the history teachers marking exams and photocopying worksheets. You had forgotten your lunch box at home and complained to Steven profusely via text. You refused to eat anything from the cafeteria, and you were positive that anyone who visited the kitchen would, really, so you were just starting to mark some exams when a movement far out of your field of vision caught your attention.

The sight in front of you was so out of place that your brain had difficulty processing it. Steven stood next to the door frame, shoulders down and a timid smile on his lips, trying not to draw any attention to himself while waving a hand in front of his face to catch your attention.

"Hey," he whispered. "You alright?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" you mouthed from where you were seated.

He lifted into the air a rectangle-shaped plastic bag and pointed at it with the biggest and proudest grin you'd ever seen on that face.

Oh, he didn't.

"I brought you lunch," he whispered once you were standing outside of the teacher's lounge. He opened the plastic bag and began pointing out things. "I got you some chicken with gravy and mashed potatoes. I made it myself so I don't know if you'll like it, I haven't actually tried it."

You looked at him, impressed and incredulous as he talked. He looked at you, then at the food, then at you again.

"What?"

His thick accent made you giggle in this disbelief.

"You should be resting, it's your day off," you said. "What are you even doing here? And where did you get the chicken to cook? You're vegan."

His whole face relaxed, his eyelids half-closed, his smile a funny one saying you're not really asking me that.

"From the supermarket, where else would I get food?"

"Oh you're something else, I swear," you whispered. "You know what I meant."

You took the bag in your hands and got into the staff room again. The history teacher, Graham, took a glimpse behind him at whatever you were carrying. He rolled up his sleeves to continue using the photocopier, a tattoo of a black scale standing prouder on his pale skin.

You caught Steven looking at it as well, his mind far away from that room, but once you were out of the other teacher's sight, his focus came back.

"Thank you very much," you said, voice low and clear. You hoped he could read on your face the intent, the longing. After all, there had been many more kisses since that third date. "I'd kiss you right here if I could."

"I can fix that."

He took a glimpse of every corner over his head, looking for security cameras. There was none. Then he kissed the inside of his fingers and pretended to slap you in slow motion.

You shook your head.

"You're very much welcome, by the way," Steven said. Then he shoved his hands into the pockets of his grey coat, the one you loved so much on him. "So the thing is I might have gotten a bit too much chicken and you know... I'm vegan so..."

You squinted at the way he was jokingly talking about it.

"... so I thought maybe we could have dinner tonight. Maybe watch a movie afterwards, read a bit."

"Oh, you cheeky bastard," you jabbed an accusatory finger in his sternum. "If you wanted me to come over, you should have just said that."

"I know," he responded, his happy grin was breathtaking. "But I did want to make sure you ate, and I actually love cooking even if I'm not very good at it."

You had to resist the urge to pull him by the collar of his jacket and kiss him on the lips.

"You're perfect at it. And that was an awesome tactic," you replied. "The whole I'm vegan so you should come over and we could have dinner and have you-know-what after. You can't fool me, Grant."

He shook his head.

"It's a good one, right?" he said, his flirtatious tone completely foreign to him. "All jokes aside, I don't have any expectations about it, you know that." He gestured, his hands moving in the air. "Whatever you wanna do is fine. We could play chess all night if you wanted."

That's why you liked him so much, everything was easy with him. He was happy with your company, loved doing indoor plans and both restaurant and coffee dates. That didn't mean everything was up to you, though, or that he didn't have any preferences. Last weekend he had miraculously gone to karaoke night with some of your friends, —you were lucky none of them knew Marc personally— and he had completely slain the stage. You had asked him to attend, but you didn't think he actually would. You slept in his flat again, and he was so drunk that as soon as his eyelids closed he ran to puke on the toilet. Then the next morning you fed Gus while he turned the kettle on and later both of you took a walk around Hyde Park; which was his plan in exchange for the karaoke.

By now you were basically a couple, but avoided having that conversation nonetheless. Steven was a pro at reading your facial expressions and changing the subject when you didn't feel comfortable. That was pretty much the last thing he wanted, and he also had to remind himself that you had barely known each other for a month now, that things had started extremely fast and seemingly sped up a little bit more every second. And with those odds, Steven refused to crash his relationship against any tree, it’d simply not happen.

The day went by too slowly after he left, promising that he'd see you that same night and sending good wishes for the rest of your workday. After that, you went home just to change the sweaty clothes you'd been wearing all day. You took a shower and rubbed some lotion on every inch of your body. And at the end of the routine, you openned your underwear drawer to find the most beautiful piece of lingerie you owned.

Part of you couldn't help but wonder what Marc would say if he saw you wearing that, how he'd react, what he'd do; but you were mostly thinking about Steven both when you bought it and now that you were fastening the hooks of the lace bra behind your back. Shaking your head, you decided not to think about Marc anymore, it was simply not his business.

When Steven opened the front door of his flat, dinner was almost done. You hugged him despite the baking powder on his apron, but he still refused to hug you back because he had food smeared all over his hands. You grabbed his chin to pull his face against yours and kissed him, but you shouldn't have. An explosion of flavour flashed through your tongue when you did, a bolt of white lightning suddenly appearing behind your eyelids. It made you moan, and in the middle of the fog, you realized Steven had sugar on his lips.

He chuckled. One of his hands falling on your waist and keeping you against him, one of yours on his chest, your knees weak and your mind all groggy.

"Woah... what was that?" he grinned.

"You have sugar on your lips," you answered and squinted, pretending to be annoyed. "You did it on purpose."

He shook his head, half incredulous, half amused.

"No, I didn't, I was baking dessert for us."

"...and what were you baking?"

"Vegan cheesecake"

You bit your lip at the thought and broke away, slowly, waiting for him to either tighten his grip against your waist or let you go. He finally opted for the latter but didn't seem entirely convinced about it. You dropped your purse on his desk without asking, as if it was already your own flat.

"I'm going to-... yeah-the food..." he anxiously shifted in place, randomly remembering —finally— he had other things to do rather than just stand there and look.

You couldn't help but chuckle as he walked to the kitchen space, not without looking back at least twice to check if you were following.

"I got invited to watch you work today," you said, arms crossed over your chest. "Apparently one of the teachers is sick and they invited me to visit the museum with the ten-year-olds on Monday. They were very persistent about it."

Steven smiled. "Sounds like good news to me."

"Can I help you with anything?" you asked once in front of the oven, changing the subject, but he simply stirred the sauce for a second and rapidly focused his attention on something else.

"No, no. Well- yeah... I mean, you can help me eat it-" he joked. "Not a good idea if I invite you for dinner and have you starving, right?"

You took a spoon from one of the drawers, which seemed to catch his attention, and dipped it into the sauce. Even with the taste of sugar from his lips still camouflaging the flavour, it was delicious. You moaned for the second time.

"Oh," he laughed. "Cheers, angel."

All his body language shifted completely, while you stood there blinking at the new pet name, speechless. Steven squared his shoulders, looking proudly at the food, and turning off the cooker. He gave a long sigh and started serving the food.

"I have to say I was a bit shook about this," he confessed while serving the chicken. "I've never cooked for anyone before, so I don't even know if my cooking skills are decent," he smiled. "I mean, most days I forget to have at least one of my meals, can't say that's good, can I?"

He extended the plate at you and his smile vanished.

"Did you just call me angel?" you asked.

A pause, as if time had stopped.

"Did I?" he said, leaving the plate on the counter, a nervous little laugh ripped out of his throat. "I mean- I know I did. You don't like it?" he had puppy eyes now, then turned and kept on serving the food. The plate trembled in his hand. "I won't say it again."

"No, no. It's okay. I like it," you cooed as you caressed his cheek with your thumb. "It's okay."

You took the plate from his hands and left it on the counter. Steven shifted in place, now facing you with sloping shoulders. The corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes glossy.

"Hey, what's wrong?" your hands took his in yours and gave him a soft squeeze. He didn't talk. "Steven, please." he gave a long sigh and his whole weight fell against the edge of the counter. "This is not for the nickname, is it?"

He shook his head, still with the same expression.

"I mean-" he finally talked, his voice low. "That's part of it, yeah..." he took some deep breaths and you couldn't help but witness, your heart ached while you took his arm and stroked his forearm with your nails, then he talked. "I like you more than I should, I mean, it's only been a month and I'm all head over heels for you and I want to do so many things and- then- yeah... I don't know. I really do think you were sent for me, sometimes, like a blessing or a fate thing. I don't know. Call me cheesy if you want," he stopped, he was almost choking with his words, then he studied your reaction and resumed.

"...after all, you appeared right in time. I was really, like really, freaking out about never being able to love anyone or never settling with anyone. I mean- I don't mean we will, I'm just saying..." he huffed, looking at the ceiling as if looking for answers. "I want to have a family, and how could I do that without a partner? And now I'm just... so scared of losing you," he brought both fists to his chest and closed his eyes "I don't know why I have this feeling that I'm going to lose you. And then I found-" he abruptly stopped and covered his eyes. He wasn't crying, not yet at least.

"Steven. What did you find?"

He shook his head, his fingers still covering his eyes. Then he sobbed.

Panic surged through your veins. Your mind started rushing, a thousand questions running through it. You tried to have your breathing under control, after all, you didn't know yet what he was talking about.

"C'mon," you felt as if an electric current had surged in your muscles and before you knew it, you were walking. You took two chairs from the table and placed them one in front of the other. Your voice shivered and broke when you said: "We're gonna fix this, Steven. I don't know what I did but," you were almost whispering to yourself, a hand ran through your hair, anxiously. “… we are."

His cheeks were wet, yet his eyes were still fixed on yours. You tried to take his arm to guide him to have a seat but he just stopped midway and begged.

"Please," he said, both hands on your cheeks, "calm down. Please. I don't wanna upset you. It's nothing, I just got all freaking emotional about nothing."

His words were soothing, a sweet remedy for your nerves and doubts. If he had discovered Marc or your dealings with him, he wouldn't be caring for you the way he was .

It felt like a bucket of cold water over your head anyway, because at that moment you realised that Steven might never forgive you if he found out about Marc. You would be losing forever the only two people you had ever loved. His words inadvertently had the opposite effect.

You clenched your jaw and lips as your nose twitched and your eyes filled with tears. You tried to turn away so he wouldn't see you, and still, he wouldn't let you go. With his hands still on your cheeks, he forced you to look at him. He whispered words of reassurance, pleading while he asked for forgiveness. You closed your eyes tightly and the tears came.

"Please don't cry. I didn't mean to make you cry. I didn't mean to." he said, he took you into his arms and kissed your hair. "I can't stand it. Please."

You finally started fighting against him, getting rid of his hands and hugs and kisses. He didn't let you go at first, but then he did. You wiped your tears and sat on the chair. The feeling of dread was still present, but you repeated in your mind that you wouldn't let it happen, like a mantra. You had to focus on the present. Steven hadn't found out about Marc, as long as that didn't happen, you'd be good.

"What did you find? Explain it to me." Your voice was so steady and cold that you surprised yourself.

Steven nodded and went to his desk, then came back with one of his hands turned into a fist and took his seat right in front of you, his fist tight on the table.

“I was cleaning before you came,” he said. “Before you see it I want you to know that I might have thought something I shouldn’t have when I saw it, that’s true, but I trust you. Always have. I just tend to overthink constantly and then I saw it and I shouldn't have.”

Your breath was caught in your throat. You knew what it was even before he even showed it to you.

Steven opened his hand and there it was, the post-it; the one Marc had left for you the first night you stayed the night in that very same flat, you had forget to take it with you when you left that day. Your eyes caught a glimpse of Steven and for a second everything felt unreal. The fact that he had cried for a note that his very fingers had written for you… and the fact that he thought you were seeing someone else, was simply overwhelming.

Then something clicked in your brain. Everything came back to you in a second. You had to react somehow, or he’d think you were cheating on him.

So you smiled, although you weren’t sure how it looked from other's people's eyes. You tried to chuckle, but it only came out as half a sigh, half a moan.

“Steven… that’s what you were so worried about?”

He didn’t look entirely convinced.

We need to talk -Marc. The words, especially his name, felt like accusations; and wrong. They felt wrong in Steven’s hands.

“I didn’t,” he said. “At first I thought the worst, but… it’s not what you think. I saw it and felt bad and then I realized that it was just my brain making up scenarios and giving me a sight of what I thought I was seeing, a sight that it’s probably not real. I mean- I don’t have the context…”

You silently thanked that Steven took so long to say anything, because it helped your nerves and gave you a minute to think about what to say next.

“… and you think I can give you context?”

“I mean, no, you don’t owe me anything,” he shook his head. “I’d like to think that if you were seeing someone else you wouldn’t be here with me. I was… I am scared of losing you, that’s the thing. I have this sensation in the pit of my stomach that something bad is about to happen, like something really bad. And I found this and I wasn’t in a good place, mentally. That’s what I’m saying. I’m scared, but I don’t think you’re cheating. Well, would it even be considered cheating if we’re not officially dating yet?” He laughed it off, but you saw the hurt in his eyes. “I hope I was clear, because I’m not very good with words.”

“Yeah, you were” you answered and took one of his hands in yours. You sighed happily, relieved. “Marc is a friend of mine. He’s my best friend, actually. We met in high school. He thought I was mad at him because he’s been a bit of an asshole lately. He barely answers my calls anymore and he’s one of those people who has trouble speaking his mind, being honest… the whole lot; and he left that in my purse a few hours before our date because we had a fight. I’m sorry it triggered you so much.”

Now he seemed convinced, maybe because a big part of what you’d just said was true. Maybe the timeline wasn’t exactly correct, but all the rest was true.

“Did you two make peace?”

Oh, Steven. He looked just so concerned about it for no reason. He was a real sweetheart.

“Yeah, yes, kind of,” you responded. “We talked on the phone.”

“I’m so glad. That’s important, to talk things through... pun intended” he chuckled.

Steven kissed your knuckles and, in a swift motion, rose up from the chair. You saw him as he placed one of the plates in the microwave. Your heart ached at the sight, at the domesticity, at all the gestures and the kindness.

You saw the face of Marc in his features as he reheated the food. It felt wrong, the fact that you had just explained who Marc was to the face that you had grown up with, the very same face and body you had associated with Marc Spector your whole life. You felt like saying it, the truth barely hanging from your lips.

Steven deserved to know.

Ultimately, you decided to give Marc an ultimatum.

A radio station was now playing in Steven's flat. None of you gave much importance to it; it had just been Steven's way of lightning up the mood while both of you had dinner. It surprisingly worked, given the fact that both of you joked about hating BBC Radio One while neither made an effort to change it. Steven would mimic Nick Grimshaw every once in a while, making you laugh and therefore laughing himself too.

For dessert, Steven turned on the television and put on a documentary about Egyptian history. Now two half-finished plates of vegan cheesecake were left alone on top of his coffee table, while Grimshaw's voice became white noise in the background. On the sofa, you had started by sitting next to Steven with one of your legs over his knees, leaning slightly towards him as you ate the cake. But half an hour had passed and now the monotone voice of the history channel couldn't keep your attention anymore, you had both legs over his lap now; and watched him silently while stroking his hair. Then you went down, your nails barely touching his flesh as your fingers ran down the length of his arm, from the shoulder to the wrist and back up again.

After a while, he stopped paying attention to the documentary.

"Am I boring you?" he asked, sinking into the couch and pressing his forehead against yours. "We can watch something else."

You shook your head. "It's fine. I like to see you all invested on the ancient world," you answered.

"Uhmm..." he closed his eyes and sighed. "I stopped being invested a while ago, love. Plus, I thought you fancied to learn a bit about it"

That was true, you'd asked him to give you egyptology classes.

"Yeah," you chuckled. "I wanted you to teach me because you put so much love into it, I didn't mean watching history channel; but that's okay, I can do that too."

Steven put the TV on mute and patted your legs on his lap signalling for you to let him go. He took a book from the large stack on his desk and when he returned to the sofa, he wrapped his arm around your legs and returned to the first position. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and held the book open with one hand.

"Mythology’s fine?" he asked.

You nodded. "Mythology is perfect."

He started reading, and you occasionally stopped to ask questions. After a while, he simply opened a family tree on the first page of the book.

"Let's get the basics first, shall we?" he mocked you, making fun at your lack of knowledge. "We can start with the Ennead. You remember what I said about it, right?"

You nodded, he had complained profusely about the marketing campaign of the museum. It had so many gods missing, and he was fuming about it for three days.

"Yeah," you kissed him on his jaw, unable to help yourself. "Who are they?"

"There's nine of them," he shivered behind your touch. "Atum, Tefnut, Shu, Geb and Nut, Set, Nephthys..."

With every name you planted a kiss on his cheek; and after a while, you realized you were now leaving kisses on his neck. Steven closed his eyes and shivered; then you stopped.

"And the other two?" you asked him, with the most innocent face.

Steven opened his eyes slowly, dizzy and astonished at the same time.

"Are you having a laugh?"

You smiled and shook your head. "Not at all, I'm interested. I really am."

He squinted at you, then he pointed out some drawings on the family tree.

"As I was saying... Atum, Tefnut," he said, you resumed your kisses on his neck and he made a hissing noise. "Geb, Nut, Isis... ugh." he pushed the book aside with closed eyes and you stopped.

His eyes shot open and you asked him:

"Why are you stopping?"

He huffed, "I don't know, I seem to have a leech on my throat."

A laugh erupted from you.

"Oh, thanks for that. Really, cheers," you answered. "I wanna know the other names though. Poor deities, they are not important enough to be named."

He squinted at you, making a face as if he had been insulted.

"Atum, Tefnut, Isis..." he spoke quickly.

"You already named those," you crossed both your arms. Then you started to hear new names and you brought your lips to his Adam’s apple. Steven groaned, his body trembling under your touch.

"Alright, that's it."

With the arm he had around your shoulders, he pushed you against him; his other palm cupping your cheek. Soon, you were breathing the same air, or rather not breathing at all. Steven kissed you hungrily, intensely. His tongue still tasted like blueberries and cheesecake, and under it, the own taste of his mouth. It sent a lightning bolt to every nerve ending of your anatomy; a single wave of pleasure straight to where you needed Steven the most. Your knees sank on the couch when you got on top of him, both of them at each side of his hips; Steven grabbed yours with a slight touch at first and nailed his fingertips on your thighs after. His kisses stopped for a second, his breath loomig over your throat. He looked at you through his eyelashes, seemingly asking for permission; just to leave a trail of lazy kisses down your throat a second later.

Steven reached the hollow space at the end of your throat. He wetted his lips and left a kiss there. As a consequence, your hips rubbed against him, and for the first time, you noticed the prominent bulge growing against your inner thigh, dangerously close to your entrance only hid by your jeans.

Steven groaned, his brown eyes rolling into the back of his skull for a split second.

“Don’t stop,” you begged when his sight came back. His breath hot against your collarbone.

His puppy eyes looked at you through his eyelashes, and his jaw tightened.

“It’s been a long time since…” he whispered, gasping. “I’m sorry, love. I don’t know what to do.”

His voice came out low, weak. He looked almost miserable.

You took his face in both your hands. Steven didn't get his eyes out of you, admiring you with such love in his dark gaze that you wondered if you were seeing things. The way he eyed you, as if you hung the moon, made your heart ache.

"Steven, your body is asking for something; give it to it," you whispered. His lips parted as he watched you, he was full of desire but unable to move. "Don't think so much. Just get what you want."

He was trying, you could see it in the way he planted another kiss just above the neckline of your top. He was really trying; but you needed him quicker. Before he could get his hands on you, you were already taking your shirt off.

You heard Steven's breathing change when your covered breasts fell right in front of his line of vision, the lace bra catching his attention. He swallowed loudly, his lips parted at the sight.

"Do you always wear these?" he asked.

You lightly chuckled, the reaction was better than anything you'd imagined. "I wish I could say I do; but no, I'm wearing it just for you."

He bit his lower lip right before burying his face in your cleavage, leaving wet kisses on his path. One of his hands slid under the bra, your skin erupting on goosebumps all over your body; and he squeezed, applying the right amount of pressure. You took his other hand and placed it under the other side of your bra. You gasped for air and moved your hips, trying to get some relief inside your drenched, ruined underwear. Steven cried out at the contact.

You couldn't stand the position anymore and got off, laying next to him on the couch just a second later. Steven, still fully dressed, rushed over you like a hungry beast; positioning himself between your legs and throwing the book somewhere behind him. He kissed you, wet tongue heavy inside your own mouth; oxygen kept inside your lungs because you couldn't quite breathe. Your chest seized, but you didn't care. You grabbed the dark curls at the back of his head, pushing him further as if it was possible. It was almost a breath-holding competition. And he lost, gasping for air while resting his head on your collarbone.

"You're too dressed," you complained, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. He took it off in one swift motion.

When his skin made contact with yours, you realised how hot it was. He was warm, comfortable. The star of David fell cold on your skin, hanging from his neck. You ran your fingers down his chest, touching soft body hair, and became perplexed at how his muscles seemed to be both soft and rigid at the same time. He was sweating and you couldn't think about anything you wanted more than to lick the tears of sweat out of his flesh.

Steven licked your pulse point in your neck, and you couldn't help but let out a cry.

"You alright?" he asked, appearing again above you, fear staining his face, but you couldn't do anything else than nod. His features softened and he leaned in to taste your lips again, He was careful and tender this time.

"Tell me what you want, Steven," you sighed, your mind clear for the first time in minutes as you realized he needed another push to keep going. His eyes lit up at the nickname. "You can have everything you want, touch anywhere you want, I'm yours tonight."

Steven hesitated, but something awakened in him nonetheless. You saw it in the way his gaze darkened even more. He kneeled on the couch, straightening his back above you. He watched you as he slowly unbuttoned your jeans, waiting for a reaction that signalled him to stop. Your breathing became ragged and your eyes got stuck in the way he unzipped your trousers.

"Look at me, angel," he whispered.

His features appeared again in your field of vision, but your focus remained where Steven touched you. He slid his palm over your wet underwear.

"Bloody hell, you're drenched," he said, his flat hand cupping all of you. "I want to touch here, can I touch here?"

You tried to take a deep breath. "Yeah. Please, do."

He didn't waste time. He took both your jeans and panties off, completely, without so much as getting a quick glance at the lace. He threw them somewhere on the floor. Your knees were on either side of him, so he had full access and nothing to stop him. His thumb drew circles on your clit without warning, slow-paced and watching your reaction. Steven could not, for the love of him, do anything without making sure you were okay with it.

He then pushed a finger through your entrance, his breath getting stuck on his chest as he wondered at the sight. You were so wet that he added two right away and pumped.

"Harder, please, Steven.”

He obeyed, fingering you with passion. He made a face, his eyebrows frowning and his lips parted. His eyes back at you soon enough.

"Better?" he asked. "Is that good? That's how you like it?"

"Yes, yes," you answered, watching his perfect fingers disappear inside of you.

Steven accommodated himself, his free hand now next to your face, supporting himself on top of you so he could be closer. His fingers reached all the right places, the exact perfect angle inside of you.

"C-can I have another one?"

You couldn't help but think that you sounded like him now. He chuckled softly and another finger got in. Steven had them all the way buried to his knuckles, you could feel it.

"Of course you can," he said. Then he leaned in at your quivering form, he kissed your temple. "You look lovely right now, with my fingers inside of you. Wish you could see it."

The words sent another wave of pleasure right to your core. The man was really good at dirty talk, even if he had barely opened his mouth. He must have felt it too, because he smiled as if he remembered an inside joke.

You exhaled with difficulty as he moved them again, slower but deeper. You buried your nails in his shoulder, not realizing you could hurt him until he hissed. At some point amidst the fog of pleasure in your mind, he intertwined his fingers with yours, the back of your hand now useless against the fabric of the sofa.

"I wanna taste you.”

You thought you had imagined the words that fell from his mouth, a hallucination, although a pleasant one. After all, you couldn't quite form any rational thought at the moment. But then he stopped fingering you. Steven kneeled on the floor, took both your thighs and put them on top of his shoulders. Before you could even get adjusted to the idea and the perfect sight of Steven Grant between your legs, he gave a long lick and sucked.

"Steven!" you cried out, getting his attention.

He gave you a look asking for permission. Your face said it all.

His fingers were buried in the flesh of your thighs to keep you in place. His tongue flat against your core until he started licking and doing circles, and you needed him closer. You tried to reach his hair, his face, anything, and lifted your hips slightly to meet his tongue; but he was having none of that.

"No" he mumbled, hungrily, his breath hitching against your most sensitive part. "Stay still, please."

One of his palms extended over your abdomen. Your orgasm starting to build up, right below his touch and threatening with tearing you apart. In the back of your mind, you marvelled at the thought that he was doing all the right things while —most probably— not having the faintest idea of what he was doing.

You quivered as he ate you like a starving man.

"Don't stop," you moaned, your voice strange to your own ears, an octave higher. The heat was unbearable, your orgasm making its way afloat, threatening to wreck you from the inside out. "Steven..."

All your muscles got rigid in an instant, locked in place. A blast of pure bliss extending through every inch of your body. The ceiling vanished as your vision got clouded with black spots. The man between your legs kept his pace even then, guiding you through it, until you couldn’t keep it anymore and, becoming aware of your struggling, he stopped.

The sight was the most twisted and beautiful thing you’d ever seen. Steven leaned his head and kissed your inner thigh with his eyes closed, the wet mark he left there, a ghost of his own lips. He rested his head on your lap and you saw it, his chin glistening with the mix of fluids under the dim light of the living room. He thought you looked lovely? He definitely did.

“Sorry, got a bit carried away there. You taste like heaven,” he said. “Was that good?”

Oh, this motherfucker.

“Oh, cheers, those are lovely words” he laughed. You’d said it out loud, hissed it under your breath. “I’ll take that as a yes”

You smiled, exhausted and satisfied. The baby hairs sticking to the surface of your skin, drops of sweat on your temples, your collarbones, the back of your knees. Steven looked down, just to close his eyes and curse under his breath.

When you looked at him properly, you realised he was stroking himself. His black boxers down just enough to free his boner and take it into his hands.

"Steven..." you whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, as if you were trying not to scare a wild animal. "Come here, let me touch you."

He let out a pleased sigh, his cheeks blushed. "You don't have to, really. You don't owe me anything.”

Not only his chin was glistening under the light now, but the tip of his member was also wet enough not to need any kind of lube. Steven was big, as you had already noticed, but it was impressive to see him that way: naked, flustered, needy.

You shook your head.

"You're such an idiot sometimes," you responded, and pulled his arm so he'd get into a seating position next to you. "Come here, let me see how pretty you are."

Steven held his breath even before you took his member in your hands. You stroked him once, slowly, all his muscles relaxing at the same time, his eyes rolling back into his head just to close them shortly after. He moaned your name in such a way that you wondered how he had kept himself from fucking you when he did it to you. Your own pulse throbbing in your most intimate part with every moan of his.

"Stop, stop," he whispered, almost as if he didn't mean it; but you obeyed, even though you were just about to put him into your mouth. "I'll cum if you keep doing that."

You softly chuckled, looked at him with the most innocent face you had, "but babe… that's the point."

He smiled with his eyes closed, "I want to... I want to be inside..." he timidly requested, not finishing a single sentence. "Can we do that? I have condoms."

A warm sensation filled your heart. All you did was brush Steven's hair back, he was sweaty and just like that he looked amazing. He was the most angelical, sweet man you'd ever met.

You stood, waiting for him to do the same. You took his hand when he did and walked to his bedroom space. He let you go just to get to the bedside table and fetch a condom. Your feet accidentally stood on the sand, but you didn't give importance to it and laid on the bed.

"Should I be jealous?" you asked, as you buried your elbows on the mattress. "Who are you using them with?"

He smiled as he walked his path back to you.

"Well, hopefully, you." he joked, his feet covered in sand when he finally got to your spot. "I bought them this morning if that's what you're asking."

Steven stroked himself twice before putting it on, one of his knees on the edge of the bed. And you took the opportunity to finally remove your bra. You watched him fascinated and so did he. Once he was done, you backed up on the bed and he followed, grains of sand over the white sheets. His thumb touched your entrance and circled around your clit when you gave him access. He took his member, the tip barely touching your entrance.

"Are you sure?" he asked, mindlessly caressing the top of your thigh while he read your body language. You smiled, nodded and cupped his cheek, hoping that gave him some kind of reassurance. "Alright, stop me if it hurts, or anything, really."

Sparks of pleasure exploded and expanded through your veins as Steven pushed slowly into you. The impossible pressure building up around your walls, knocking the air out of your lungs despite the sluggishness of his action. Closing your eyes you tried to take a deep breath.

"...alright?" you just heard the last word of what he said, focusing on the sweet pain surging through you. He was big, indeed. And when you didn't open your eyes he ran his thumb over your lips and called your name.

"I'm fine," you huffed between breaths, annoyed at him for stopping.

"Sure?"

"I can take it, Steven," you said, your heels digging into his backside, urging him to follow.

And so he did. With one last swift movement he was completely buried in you. You watched him trying to regain his composure, but he was gasping for air as if any breath could be the last; and so were you. He bowed his head to look at the show, the place where his body and yours became one, and his lungs deflated as he groaned.

He gave you time to adjust, barely a few seconds as you revelled in between pain and pleasure. Meanwhile, Steven licked his own thumb, circling and pinching your left nipple a moment later, the gesture sending shivers to your spine. He kissed you one last time and he pulled his hips back.

Steven began pounding into you, slow-paced and sweet first, squeezing his eyes shut while he kept your knee around his waist. Frenetic and mindless later. With each thrust, you felt as if he could split your body in two, but you could take it, you could. You repeated it in your mind, sometimes mumbling it in a low voice as he kept his rhythm. His whole studio was filled with the noises of both your bodies crashing into each other; it was disgusting, dirty, obscene, all in the best of senses.

Your vision became blurry at some point, and you couldn't see anything else beyond the spots in your vision. Your eyes were filled with tears; he was hitting right into your g-spot. And he clung to you as if you were the only thing anchoring him to this cruel earth. His hands were stuck in your waist, just below your ribs. You were certain you'd have bruises tomorrow, you thought as you gasped, unable to form a word or take a breath.

"Oh, lord, look at you," he hissed as if he had cut his finger with a piece of paper. "Look at you, my goodness, look at you."

He was completely out of his mind, repeating your name and the exact same three to four words time and time again.

"Steve- Steven," you gasped between thrusts. "Shut up. You're-You're hyperventilating."

He slowed his pace, finally, just for a second. He bit his lower lip and pounded once, hard; and kept the intensity.

"Let me hyper- ugh... in peace," he said, he let out a moan that sounded like half a laugh ."You look so perfect right now, my angel, my piece of heaven...

An orgasm was building up once more, warming every single inch of your insides. Steven drew circles over your clit as you watched his desperation, his despair, trying to get you closer. He pounded twice more and his whole body went rigid, pressing his hips against your core as far as possible, deeply buried in you; your own pleasure slowly fading as his body collapsed.

He fell almost like a dead weight over you, somehow getting enough strength and willpower to prevent his body from crushing you.

"You were so good, baby, so good for me," you muttered as he closed his tired eyes, his cheek against your stomach, drops of sweat falling from his temples and on your naked body. It was the most beautiful sight you had ever seen. "You're okay, I got you," you said, stroking his dark curls. He smiled through the pleasure. "I got you."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled after a couple of seconds. You got annoyed at just the thought of how many times he had apologized in the last hour. "I told you I wouldn't last much."

You shook your head and stared into his saddened eyes.

"It's fine darling," you said. "It's our first time together, we got ourselves all worked up-... ah…"

You sighed at the loss of contact, Steven backing up and getting himself out of you. The condom was soon tied and back into the package when he said, "let me make it up to you."

It didn't take you long for you to come again, also in his mouth. It was difficult not to when he put so much effort into it, barely breathing through his nose. Steven didn't let go this time either, hungrily eating you out until the tears you had left in your eyes wetted your hair and stained his sheets.

He stroked your hair, laying next to you, as you made it back from your high; hugging you and admiring you with that look of amazement perpetually on his face. He covered your naked body with his sheets and buried his nose in your neck, his breathing hot over your pulse.

"That was so good," you gasped, looking at him as he still ran his fingers through your hair. "You're so good at it, it's mental."

He chuckled. "Don't say that after what happened," he said, his cheeks blushing again. "I swear I'm not letting myself cum before you ever again."

"I swear I'm gonna slap you if you don't shut the fuck up," you said.

Steven made a gesture of zipping up his mouth. He kissed your shoulder and one of your cheeks as he cupped the other, and kept talking nonetheless.

"Remember when I said I wanted to do so many things?" he asked. "I thought maybe we could have a weekend together. I got a flyer promoting Brighton from the museum," he said, a pang pulsed in your stomach. "Must be somewhere, probably on my wallet. I'll show you tomorrow..." he stopped then, noticing your frown. "What's wrong?"

You shook your head slightly, your lips a thin line on your face. Your fingers played over his chest, your legs entangled with his.

"Not Brighton, I don't wanna go there."

His gaze softened, his gentle touch placing the baby hairs behind your ear over and over again, even though it was a lost cause.

"Not Brighton, not the beach, or not anywhere?" he asked.

His words directly translated into your brain, he was wondering if you simply refused to go on a weekend getaway with him.

"Just not Brighton."

He gave a long sigh. "We can easily fix that, I've heard Bournemouth or Torquay are really nice at this time of the year."

You smiled, your eyes half-closed, and he mirrored you.

"You might not want to hear it," he said, slurring his words. "Because it's too soon, whatever people mean by that, but I really do love you and can't wait to see what we build together."

You giggled softly with your eyes closed, your mind quickly drifting off and into the darkness.

"I love you, Steven Grant."

His fingers drew circles on your back, half your body on top of him. You felt him shift underneath, kiss your temple one last time. Then you noticed the warm heat of his comforter above your naked shoulders.

"Sleep tight, love."

Next thing you know, a loud thud woke you up.

Your eyes opened to Steven half-dressed, a pair of navy boxers hiding his perfect arse from you. He muttered something under his breath, his voice an octave deeper. You saw him intend to pick up the books he'd just knocked off, but left them on the floor just before he reached them instead. He put one of his fists between his teeth, you saw it in the reflection on the window. The muscles in his back trembled as if he was silently crying.

"Steven..."

He jumped in place, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. He didn't turn.

"Put your clothes on and get the fuck out of my house," the American accent harsh, his voice even deeper than Steven's usually was in the morning.

But he was not Steven anymore, and it was certainly not morning yet.

Your heart sank inside your ribs, the air suddenly knocked out of you. You jolted upon a seating position, dragging the white sheets to your chest so you didn't feel as exposed as you were. Marc let out a sarcastic laugh from where he was, walking toward the living room. When he came back he threw your clothes on the bed without saying a single word. If you weren't awake before, now you were.

"I don't know why you're even trying to cover yourself," he said, words sharp like a knife.

Pain flooded through your veins, a knot growing in your chest and throat that didn't quite let you breathe. You let the sheets down and they fell off you. Your jeans were cold when you reached for them, the fabric suddenly felt dirty on your hands. All your limbs were heavy when you got out of bed, your own weight too heavy for your knees to hold.

Marc didn't even give you a glance, he just took a pair of grey joggers from a drawer and stood there, eyes fixed on the door, hands on his hips, while his mind sailed far away from that room. With a new pain blooming in your chest now, you guessed that was how getting shot must have felt.

"No words, uh?" he turned finally, just when you had finished zipping your jeans, only the bra covering your breasts. His face was red and contorted into a grimace, half pain, half disgust.

You clenched your jaw until your teeth hurt. You hadn't said anything because you didn't find the words, and couldn't figure out what he was thinking either. It hurt even more that fact, to realize that the person you had known your whole life, the same person you shared so many memories, inside jokes and a whole inner language with, the best friend you once only needed a look to share an opinion with, was now unreadable to you.

The sole idea that he woke up and, oblivious to him, you were naked laying on his bed was horrible, to say the least. He'd said once, a long time ago, that he considered you the sister he never had. You couldn't even begin to think how violent it was for him to be in this situation.

"I- I don't know..."

"Don't cry," he said, a disgusted look on his face as he turned away from you. "Don't do that, seriously. It's pathetic."

You touched your face to find that your cheeks were wet. Somehow, you hadn't noticed before. His words, on the other hand, felt like a knife impossible to escape from. Your tears were obvious and falling without control now. If he was planning to murder you with insults a disgusted looks, you'd rather have the final blow now.

"Marc," you said, following him as he walked to the living room and then, the kitchen. "Let's talk about this."

"No."

First, he turned off the radio, the low whisper of music coming to an end.

"Marc, please. I can explain..."

It didn't matter how much you begged, because he wouldn't hear you. A hot rush of adrenaline ran through your veins before that realization, your fingers trembled over your arms while you hugged yourself. Marc circled the sofa and took the remote of the coffee table, the history channel finally turned off.

"What happens when he wakes up in the morning, uh?" you tried to reason with him. "He's a human being, Marc. What happens then?"

"That's the only thing you care about, uh," he said, jaw clenched. "Him. Well, I don't fucking care. You didn't care about me either."

"You know that's not true."

Marc pursed his lips, taking his angry stare away from you. His pupils danced around the empty space, as if he was trying to find somewhere to hide. Then he saw something, his whole face shifting to one of pure disgust once again, his kuckles turning a concerning shade of white as he clenched them. Your heart fluttered in your mouth when you followed his eyes, finding a wet stain on the fabric of the couch.

Your whole perception of reality was shattered as you covered as much of your exposed flesh as you could. It happened so quickly that your mind didn't even acknowledge his actions until all of it was over. When you opened your eyes again, the couch was upside down, the coffee table shattered, the floor covered in sharp pieces of glass. He had throw it as if it was as light as a feather.

Taking as many steps backwards as you could, you hit the kitchen counter. All the scene felt like a nightmare, in fact, you prayed that it was a nightmare. There was no way in hell that was Marc, Marc would never be so violent, but the other option was even more impossible.

It was as if time had stopped. Marc turned around, looking for you, his whole body visibly less tense. And he found you trying to hide yourself, become one with the black shadows of the kitchen.

"(Y/N)," your heard him mutter. "(Y/N), what are you doing? Come here."

"You're out of your mind, Marc," you said.

He stopped in his tracks and put a hand to his stomach, as if he had been shot. "I'm sorry. I really am. I blacked out. It's just a couch, I'd never hurt you. I won't hurt you."

Tears streamed down your face, worse than before. You tried to cover them up just as faint sobs arose out of your chest, and Marc sprinted to your spot in the kitchen. He hugged you, his strong arms embracing all of you, his warm calloused hands on your back.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his chest trembling behind your ear, his heart on a cruel race without a finish line. "Don't be scared, please. Don't be scared of me."

His beg awakened something in you, the part of you that had always wanted to protect Marc Spector from everything and everyone. It was a silent throb in your chest, a painful one. It had always been like this, after all, you were his protector even if it didn't look like that.

He had always been there for you. He picked you up with his dad's car when you went out partying, he made sure you didn't drink too much when both of you hanged out together without other people, he was the shoulder you'd cry on when something bad happened, even if he could only speak on the phone because he was so many miles away from you. And still, you were the only one who saved him; even if you didn't know that yet.

His sobbing eventually came to a stop, the same as yours. Your fingers were buried in his curls, running your fingers through his hair. Your cheek was against his chest, listening as his heartbeat slowed. The star over the hollow space between his collarbones shone.

"Can we talk now?" he pleaded, to which you just nodded.

He took a step back, his face a sad stare far away from where his body was currently standing. He blinked a few times, his eyes fluttering as if he was trying to see something in the darkness.

"Oh, god. I'm so sorry."

It felt like magic at the time, because as soon as he said it, a burning but faint pain crawled up on your shoulder. Marc stretched his arm behind you, reaching for the light switch in the kitchen. Bright yellow light engulfing the whole space. Then you pulled your stare back down at your shoulder; there were small cuts there, maybe a handful of them barely bleeding, a single drop of blood in many of them. Some glass splinters must have grazed you, but nothing was stuck there and you almost didn't notice, so that's what's important.

Marc, on the other hand...

"Marc, look at you..."

You couldn't help but stare at his arms, he had at least a dozen of them, not bleeding enough to bleed out or get stitches or staining the floor, but enough to have a few paths of half-dried blood down his arms and definitely worse than the ones you had. Even though this was without a doubt his fault, you couldn't bring yourself to be mean to him; and Steven didn't deserve waking up with infected cuts, so you got a first aid kit from the bathroom and two pairs of flip flops because you were both still barefoot and half naked.

"Where's your shirt?" he asked when you were back, gathering everything from the kit and arranging them while he was sitting and resting his arm on the dinning table. "I didn't see it."

Taking a look around, you saw the piece of fabric on the floor. It was barely a dark stain under the couch.

"Shit, I didn't see it there," he said, then got up. "I'm goona get you something."

"Sit down, Marc."

He's not one who likes orders, never has been, but the look you gave him said it all. Marc didn't even think about it, he just sat down again as if you had hit his rewind button. His lips parted, he breathed in, as if to say something, but then his mouth shut again and he allowed you to patch him up.

The cuts weren't deep, and there was only a single, small shard on his biceps not deep enough to worry about. He took it out with his fingers before you could get the tweezers. You bandaged his arm in white gauze while scolding him. A little smiled appeared on his lips while he watched you get all worried for him.

"Steven's gonna freak out when he wakes up," you said, finally breaking up the uncomfortable silence after a couple of minutes.

"Yeah... he will, in a couple of days," he watched you frown and explained. "I have somewhere to be over the weekend. I'll be back on sunday, probably."

"With Layla?"

He huffed throuh the nose. "No, not with Layla. Why does everything have to do with Layla?"

"I don't know," you shrugged. "I really don't have any idea of why you'd have to be anywhere. You quit the military, Steven provides for you, and you don't talk to Layla anymore-"

"It's complicated."

You pressed the cotton harder against the last cut visible. He hissed.

"You always say that."

He bit the inside of his cheek, in his face a look of desperation.

"I said I'll tell you, can't you trust that either?" he said. You watched him hesitate for a second, but finally talked. "I did trust you, though, and look where it got us."

You had just finished putting on the last band-aid, his left arm half covered in white gauze. Your body jumped out of the chair, unable to keep your muscles still anymore. The moonlight kissed your features as you supported yourself against the closed window frame.

Guessing it made no sense to hide anything anymore, because you'd lost them both either way, you decided there shouldn't be any more lies between you and them.

"Can you blame me, Marc?" you gasped, turning back to him and suddenly out of breath at the thought of what you were about to do. "Can you blame me for falling in love with someone who's charming and fun and looks exactly the same way as you? Someone who, apart from being a wonderful person, has all your best characteristics and isn't even a fraction of how much of a prick you are?"

You ran a hand through your hair and pulled your stare away. Your chest was tight, but you refused to cry anymore. It had been enough.

"I've loved you for so long... I've loved you for so long" you repeated, looking up at the ceiling of his home; you weren't sure you could bear the look of pity in his eyes.

The weight fell from your shoulders inmediately after your confession. You felt so light that you wondered how had you lived until then with such a heavy burden on your back.

"How did any of us expect this to work?" you asked, but didn't think he'd answer.

"I wonder the same thing."

Even if you thought he meant he regretted asking you for that favor, that arrangement, when you looked at him you bumped into his sorrowful gaze; he wasn't blaming you, he was genuinely wondering.

"He loves you so much, and I should have known." he said.

You crossed your arms in front of him, his sight back up again to meet yours. Curiosity and bewilderment loomed over you, there was something you were not seeing, something he was not saying.

"You couldn't have known, Marc," you reassured him, although you guessed he didn't deserve any comfort right now. "You couldn't."

He chuckled. It was a bitter one, little more than a long, defeated sigh. His face contorted into a grimace, his gaze turning into a thousand-yard stare, looking at the couch on his left side. His jaw clenched, the jawline sharp and visible.

"Are you not going to ask me how I know how much he loves you?" Marc asked, eyes still unfocused as he watched you. "I told you last time I saw you, but you didn't listen."

Memories flooded in front of you, your grasp on reality leaving your mind. Last time... what had he said last time?, you asked yourself. The whole interaction happened again, the angry stare of his, the accusations, the rain soaking his jacket and wetting your hair. He had said he knew how he felt, because he could feell it too.

"I did listen. You said you could sense his feelings."

Another laugh without humor, without sense. He stood up, walked a few steps in your direction almost in slow-motion, as if he was trying not to scare a wild animal in need.

"I did not say that."

The realization hit you then, and everything made sense in your mind. It was so sudden that you felt absolutely overwhelmed. All the worry, the threat of him, all of it made sense, like some kind of twisted puzzle whose image you couldn't make sense of before.

You backed off, your back hitting the closed window. Marc's features shifted from sadness to concern in a split second as he tried to make his way to you. He whispered your name.

"Marc?" you said, as if you were threatening him with his own name. You pointed at him, your index finger jabbed him in his chest once he was mere inches away from your face. You could feel his warmth, his smell the same as Steven, the red-stained bandages rubbing your hip by accident when he went to cup your cheek. You got out of his way, almost smacking your head against the window by accident. "Have a long, hard think about your next words. I mean it, Marc."

His lips parted, his breathen uneven, his face turned into a look of dismay. He looked miserable from where you were and after all he had done and said tonight, you still wanted to comfort him.

He watched you as if he was a lost man and you were the only map he could find, but also the only one he wanted.

"I don't have to think anything," he said. "I've thought about my feelings long enough, I'm tired. I just want to feel them, not think-"

Your palm burnt when you slapped him, his face turning an angry red almost instantly. You were certain it had hurt you more than it'd hurt him.

"You piece of shit," you spat. He turned his face back to you, licking the blood flowing from his lower lip. "Who the hell do you think you are? You come here, you insult me, and now this."

You turn away from the window, practically pushing him away as you walked. He follows you with his eyes, a hand wiping off the blood from his face.

"If this is you trying to-"

"This is me trying nothing," he said, stern look on his face. "This is me trying to be damn honest."

"This is you trying to get me away from Steven, that's what it is," you said, walking back to where he was. "This is not funny. Do you have any idea how much I've suffered for you?" you anxiously ran a hand though your hair. "Why do you hate me so much, Marc? When I'm finally happy again, you try to take that away from me. What have I done?"

He clenched his jaw for a few seconds, and you waited with your hands turned into fists. Under the yellow light of the kitchen you witnessed how his eyes welled up with tears.

"Why do I even try?" he breathed, a single tear falling from one of his eyes. "You don't understand anything, do you?" he asked. "I've loved you for so long, and I couldn't say anything. I thought this was what you wanted..." he stopped, mindlessly biting the wound on his lip and grimacing. "Steven and I might seem like different people but we are actually just a fracture of the same mind. He loved you from the very first moment he saw you, because I loved you too. He's just better at showing it than I am."

You shook your head, your heart sinking in your chest.

"That's not true."

"He did say you felt familiar, right? Why do you think that is? He's seen you before."

"No." you shook your head again. "Shut up, I don't wanna hear you."

Your stomach flicked in it's place, the room suddenly too small. You walked back to the bedroom, looking for another window that you could open and try to get some air into your lungs, some logic and reasoning into your mind if possible, too.

"You remember him, don't you?" he shouted as you walked away, the sound of his voice following you. "In Brighton, do you remember him?"

The final blow was brutal, merciless. You barely reached the wall when your knees started trembling. Brighton was the place where everything started to go wrong. It was the night when your life and Marc's separated, the day you stopped almost instantly seeing your best friend everyday. The day your plans for the future were wrecked, the day your Marc left and never came back the same, the day you became lonely and grew up into an even lonelier adult. If he already was a somewhat timid and quiet person, he came back from war even worse, but also as a dark, sarcastic and stubborn man. You had dreaded that place and that day for years, decades. You had cried and mourned the person you could have become and the happy memories you would never have.

"Breathe," Marc said as he caught your shoulders, hugging you from behind. "I know it's hard but you need to breathe."

A sob broke out of your throat, and he held you as your knees gave up. Rather than try and pick you up, he kneeled on the floor too. The sand became an uncomfortable pain on your flesh, but it didn't hurt as much as you heart. Marc kissed your hair, your temple, he whispered something you could not hear above the blood running behind your ears. You squeezed your eyes shut as tears rolled down your face.

"I can't breathe-"

"Yes, you can. Look at me," he said, but you didn't.

He manoeuvred your body so that you were now sitting against the wall. He put your head between your knees and stood up for a millisecond to open the window. Then he sat in front of you.

"In and out, in and out" he squeezed your hand, trying to give you some kind of comfort through the attack, while he himself breathed loudly trying to guide you. "That's it, baby. You're doing so good."

A long and painful minute followed, but even though he himself had been the cause, in a way, the fact that it was Marc who helped you was enough to make it a little bit easier. At the end, it eased enough to for you to look at him again. Your lashes were wet and full of tears, but you could finally talk to him again.

"That's good," he muttered to himself. He gave a relieved sigh. "You're okay now."

"When did you realize?" you finally whispered, feeling your whole body numb and tired, but you needed to know. The need was stronger than the tiredness, and you deserved it after so many years.

"What thing?"

Your words came out barely a whisper.

"...that you loved me."

He shook his head, his frown a concerned one. "You don't need to hear that now."

"I deserve it Marc," you said. "I deserve it."

He looked at you as if asking for permission to an unconscious part of your brain, seemingly making sure that you were not going to break again.

"In my wedding with Layla," he said, he bit the inside of his cheek. "I married her because I thought I had finally met someone I liked more than I liked you, but all I felt was affection; not love," he said. "I was full of guilt and I thought that if I couldn't have you, I might as well mary someone who I owed something to. I was convincing myself that I loved her because of that, but I didn't."

"What did you owe her, Marc?"

"(Y/N), please..." he begged. "It's going to hurt, and you're going to hate me."

A wry laugh came out of your mouth. "I already hate you." you said. "And I'm already hurt."

A solid minute passed in silence. Marc knew he would earn your hatred for life after that, he knew you would never want to see him again. And you had been the only constant in his life for so long that he couldn't bring himself to face those odds. But in the end, he did.

"I went work-for-hired after I got discharged from the military, for my old commanding officer. The job was to raid an Egyptian tomb. Layla's father was an archaelogist there, and my superior changed his mind and wanted no witnesses. I tried to save them all, but I couldn't."

Every word felt like a stab, but tonight you seemed to get used to that, and you were so tired that you couldn't feel anything anymore.

"You lied to me. You never told me you got discharged. Marc, you became a mercenary."

He seemed not to react at the word, but you knew it hurt him. Good.

"You would have asked me why, why I was still out of the country too," he said. "And I didn't wanna lie to you so I just omitted the truth. After what happened in that tomb, I was so... just so tired... I almost died, he shot me and I was in the middle of nowhere with a pile of bodies around me; but I survived," he said, then his eyes looked at you with longing and tears. "All I wanted was to come back to you, and I did. It was your birthday," he smiled and the tears fell from his eyes. "I hated that music but you loved The Killers and I loved being there with you, and I loved being alive."

You got flashes of that day. You had always wondered why he had suddenly decided that he liked that music, and how clingy he was for weeks after that. He said they had given him another job in England.

"You've lied to me... for so long?" your voice almost a whisper.

"I am so sorry."

"You keep saying that, Marc," you said, your voice with so much disgust and hatred in it that it surprised even yourself; but you couldn't help it. "I felt dirty, all this time lying to Steven, and then here you are, telling me all of this and saying how much you love me as if it mattered now."

The expression in his face changed, and even then you weren't angry, because you couldn't bring yourself to feel anything.

"I hate you, Marc," you finally said. "You ruin everything you touch. You ruined Layla's life, you ruined mine, and you're ruining Steven's. You should be ashamed of yourself," then the final words came out, as a wrecking ball ready to end it all. "This is all your fault, Marc. You got yourself into all of this. I hope you die with the guilt."

His body froze. You saw it, the exact second in which his mind stopped functioning like a toy being turned off. He fell backwards, his back hitting the bed behind him. He gasped for air, his lips parted while he was still looking at you, with those dark brown eyes devoid of all life.

"Steven and I..." you muttered. "...We could have been happy. Tell him that when you talk to him, he will hate you as much as I do."

You weren't sure how, but now you seemed to have enough strength to maybe get home. You were certainly not staying there with him. And with that in your mind, you stood up from where you were and walked to the kitchen for the last time; leaving the limp body of Marc Spector behind you. Silently looking at everything, you tried get that flat burned in your brain as much as you could, because despite all of your plans for the future with Steven unravelling and ending out of nowhere, you still had your best memories in that flat with him, with Steven.

But you couldn't do that anymore.

On the chair, you took your jacket; you didn't want anything that belonged to Marc, not even if his shirts smelled like Steven. And before putting it on, you walked to the window and had a glance at the night sky; the full moon shining up there.

"Oh, my, god."

The british accent felt like a punch to the gut. The words reverberating in all the walls and into your ears made you uneasy. Was this nightmare of a night ever going to end? Your stomach turned at the thought of seeing Steven now, you wondered if you'd be able to look him in the face, to see past Marc's features staining his face like bleach. It made you wonder if you even had food in your stomach to throw up.

He ran, literally ran to the kitchen. His eyes shot open before the debris of the coffee table and the couch; but his expression seemed to get relieved at the sight of you. He took your hands in his once he was in front of you. You felt disgusted at the thought of those hands with weapons and blood in them, but didn't have the heart to do anything else than let him hold them.

"W-What happened?" he said, "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

He was frightened, that you could tell; but you couldn't do anything about it. You couldn't tell him it was okay, because it wasn't. It would never be okay again. You had dreaded this day for a month, and in every kiss you found the bitter taste of the future, but now you couldn't do anything else than leave Marc alone to fix his shit. Maybe then he would become a person again, maybe even a decent one.

"Please say something," he begged, tears in his eyes; but you didn't know what to do, what to say. You didn't want to hurt him, it wasn't his fault to be a part of Marc's fractured mind. "Please tell me you're okay, tell me I didn't hurt you. Please."

Then, his eyes caught a glimpse of your wounds, those that were not covered yet, on your shoulder for everyone to see. And you were suddenly walking to the door again.

"No, no, no," he said, following you and pulling your wrist gently, gentler than anything Marc had done.

"Let me go, Steven, let me go." you whispered, it sounded more like a plea, like a cry, than anything remotely close to what you intended.

"Listen- Listen to me, listen to me for a second, will ya?" he said, now in front of you, his eyes locked on yours, both his hands in your cheeks. "You can hate me all you want. Bloody hell, you can leave now and I won't bother you ever again. I just need to know you're alright, love. Please, I only care about that. Please."

Your chin trembled, the wound in your chest open once again, bleeding and with no sign of getting healed ever again. He was so desperate, and he had no idea what was happening. You felt devastated at the thought that he had simply fallen asleep after an incredible night with you, and had woken up to find his arms bandaged, his flat wrecked and his girlfriend dumping him.

"I'm fine, baby," your voice broke, your tears fell again.

He hugged you tight, his strong arms trying not to hurt you, his face trying not to touch the small cuts in your shoulder.

"I'm so sorry-" he cried. "I'm so freaking sorry. I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot the restraints, I'm such a fucking mess."

You pulled away from the hug, just enough to kiss his temple, squeezing your eyes shut because you knew it would be the last.

"Let me take care of that, alright?" he said, getting your hair out of the cuts. His fingers trembled when he did. "I'm sorry, love. I'm so sorry," his breathing uneven.

"I have to go, Steven. Please, let me go."

He covered his mouth and sobbed. His chest inflating and deflating as he weeped; and you couldn't help but keep crying with him. You hugged him, because he needed it and you did as well, and all of this wasn't even his fault.

"Please tell me this is a nightmare," he begged, looking for answers in your eyes. "...or a joke, anything. Just-"

You shook your head. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry this happened to you, but I cannot stay. I can't do this anymore."

Despite the whimpers and the harsh truth, he still nodded.

“I understand,” Steven said, calmly, so calm that you feared for his psyche. “You can’t do this anymore, I understand.”

“Steven," you begged. "Don't do this to yourself."

"No, but I do get it," he nodded again. "I do get it, love. I knew this would happen. It's just... we could have been happy, you know that, right?"

It was karma, it had to be. Steven had hurt you with the same words you had hurt Marc with. There was no other way, one in which it wasn't whatever god out there giving you back all the pain you had caused him. But you didn't need to be punished, your torment was already this whole mess of a situation.

"I know," you said.

He took your hands in his, kissed your knuckles; and then leaned in and kissed your shoulder.

"I promise you, I'll get help, I'll get rid of this curse. And then, if you want, I'll come for you. I'll give you the happy ending you deserve. I'll give you all the kisses and all the happiness, all the memories and all the kids if you want that too. You're the only heaven, the only one out there for me. I hope you know that."

Your lips parted, the knot in your throat tight and relentless. You didn't know what to say, except the only thing left.

"I love you Steven Grant."

Only twice you had ever said those words. The first, happily in his bed, making plans for the future, loving him in every way a person can be loved. The last one, you were breaking his heart; leaving him behind with questions and doubts, believing a lie that he had told himself so many times throughout the years that he had finally believed it: that he didn't deserve to be loved.

Part 2

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