Oscar, who grew up being expected to "figure it out" for basically everything, finds it a little bit odd that Mark has so many rules in his house. But the older man is really doing him a big favor, letting him stay with him after the break-up, so Oscar supposes that he can follow a few simple rules.
And most of the rules are normal, like keep the shared spaces neat and replace whatever's running out if he was the last one to use it. Don't leave his sweaters and socks strewn across the floor. Make sure to set the alarms when he leaves the house and reset them when he gets back so the company doesn't get an alert.
But some of the things listed on the paper they had written up together, jokingly titled Oscar's Good Boy Rules in Mark's neat cursive, seemed a bit...much.
Like the one about a 7 PM curfew, which would be enforced by Mark checking Oscar's location on Find My Friends throughout the day. Or the one about no phones at the dining table during supper, which Oscar isn't allowed to miss unless he asked Mark for permission in advance. Especially the one about not being allowed to sleep in his own bed, which is where Oscar finally put up some protest.
"It's not like you won't have your own space," Mark tries to reason with him. "You can spend as much time as you like in your room, that's why we went to store and got all those nice things to put in it. All your soft blankets and new gaming systems, hm? The rule would just be for sleeping at nighttime, pup."
Oscar frowns and nibbles irritably on the aglet of his hoodie string. He doesn't like the other rules all that much but he's willing to tolerate them. This one crosses the line.
"I just don't get why," Oscar says, trying not to whine and failing. "I really appreciate all you're doing for me, Mark. But I'm not a child. I promise I can sleep on my own without, like, breaking something. Promise."
They sit in silence for a few moments. Oscar squirms and gnaws on his sweater a little more. He doesn't want to make Mark angry or seem ungrateful, but the thought of having to sleep next to someone makes him—uncomfortable. He doesn't know why, considering the fact that he's shared a bed with his girlfriend for years.
Sure, sometimes he misses the warmth of another body next to his, but that was more of a phenomenon rather than ordinary circumstances. Oscar's mother has always bragged to all of her friends that Oscar was able to sleep through the night in his own room on his own little bed by the time he was a toddler. And an all-boys boarding school wasn't quite an environment where bed-sharing was encouraged, what with the bunk beds and properness of the place.
"It's not that I don't trust you," Mark finally says, breaking the quiet. "You're very mature for your age, Osc. I've always thought so. The curfew's not because I think you're up to anything suspicious, supper time was something I wanted when I was younger and eating all alone because everyone else was too tired or still working. God, this probably makes me seem like an overbearing prick, huh?"
Mark sighs and scrubs a hand down his lined face, fluffs up his beard that's longer than usual. There's more gray than brown, Oscar realizes. Old age, maybe? Stress, that Oscar himself is probably contributing to right now?
Guilt stirs low in Oscar's belly. He didn't mean to make Mark upset. He didn't mean to hurt Mark. Mark is nice to him, even if he's a little strange sometimes. Not many people have been nice, the real kind where they don't expect anything back, to Oscar before.
"I worry about you, son," Mark rasps, looking down at his clasped hands instead of at Oscar. "You're used to being independent, I know that. But you've been on your own for too long. It's not right."
Mark's hands flex in his lap, so hard that his knuckles go white and the veins in his arms pop. It looks like it hurts, so Oscar spits his hoodie out of his mouth and grabs one of Mark's hands in both of his. He blows cool air over the irritated skin, flushes pink at Mark's thankful gaze. He doesn't want Mark to hurt.
"I promised myself that if I ever had a boy of my own, I'd take care of him. Keep him safe and happy, never let him doubt that he was wanted. Protect him from anything that could hurt him, chase away anything the scared him. I'd do things right," Mark murmurs, sounding a bit dreamy and far-away. Nostalgic.
Oscar thinks about the rule. Thinks about all the times he's woken up in the middle of the night, thinks about what happened last night, when he was cold because he kicked off his blanket, still terrified because of a nightmare he can't quite recall. And as much as he'd thought he'd outgrown it, Oscar remembers wanting more than anything for someone to hold him.
It was the shameful, selfish wish of a lonely little boy. To be wrapped in the arms of someone bigger and braver than him, tucked neatly under someone's chin with his ear pressed to their steady pulse to calm the frantic rabbit pitter-patter of his own. To be soothed and coddled, all of his fear hushed away by a gentle voice and all of his trembling rocked away until he was able to sleep again.
"Okay," Oscar says, in a small voice. He clears his throat, tries to be brave. "I get it. We can, um. We can keep the rule."
When Mark smiles at him, surprised and pleased and proud as ever, Oscar thinks that maybe Mark gets it, too.
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