LavenderhatesWritting

University was supposed to be a fresh start, far, far away from all the bullshit high school was. You remember your parents dropping you off all those months ago, giving your semi-smiles and semi-waves before driving off. You were finally alone, with nothing but a shiny new pair of keys and several bags full of memories and belongings. It was all you had and all you needed, you told yourself.

The days of being shoved around and kicked and slammed into walls were over. You wouldn't have to hunch over when walking or look around wide eyed and anxious. That was the old you. Now, you have other problems.

Instead of a nice, smooth transition into the idyllic life of parties and drugs and alcohol you were promised (albeit by TV and movies, neither of which were very accurate to life, a realization you should've seen coming, and yet didn't), you were shoved headfirst into orientations that lasted too long in the summer semester heat. You were forced into crowded lecture halls instead of toilet bowls, and into a stuffy room with a stranger where you had to gamble on their tolerability. 

But you took the bad with the good. This was better.

So now, you stand in front of your newly assigned dorm room—the one you've been waiting to free up for a whole month. You take a second for yourself, breathe in and out as if this is some cathartic moment. A new beginning. This is a place to call your own, after all. And your roommate's. But that wasn't as important. 

Except when you twist the key and push your way in, the door hits something. What?

You crane your neck to peek inside the room, blinking slowly when you see boxes pushed against the wall. They're labelled and half open, the edges frayed like they had been sitting there for ages and the owner hadn't bothered unpacking. Shirts. Pants. Shoes. Merch. Books–

Oh God.

"Is that a porn mag?"

You can’t help it—the words slip out before you have a chance to stop them. You're somewhere between shock and disbelief at the blatant, unapologetic sight in front of you. Some ginger chick with tits big enough to be balloons is staring at you, and you can't help but stare back.

You catch a faint ‘Oh, shit!’ from somewhere inside the room, followed by the sound of the thud of feet hitting the floor. A moment later, a head ducks into your vision: black hair slicked back, though a few rebellious strands stuck out.

"Yeah, hey..." you mutter, straightening your spine as he shoves the boxes out of the way with little care. They scatter in a loose trail that leads straight to the bed he’d clearly claimed as his own. How considerate. "So, you're..?" 

This guy doesn't even have the basic decency to close the box full of what should've been an abandoned collection of nudie mags and pin up posters. Instead, he grins, dopey and lopsided, almost a bit sheepish (good.) as he extends his hand to you. "Mark. Mark Grayson."

It is during your second month at Upstate U that you meet Mark Grayson. And it is during that second month that you decide (despite all your former hopes and dreams of forming a lifelong bond with your roommate) that you would avoid him as much as humanly possible.

You'd just try your luck somewhere else. 

You begin to attend study groups, if only half-heartedly, then campus events, game nights. You manage to grab a beer with the guys down the hall, manage to hit it off with a girl for a few weeks until she dumps you after a handful of clumsy dates. Sometimes you see her and exchange curt smiles and awkward waves. 

It's nice, really. Things are going according to plan, and you weren't the freak in an oversized hoodie and tattered shoes anymore.

But there's still one eensy, teensy little problem.

Mark's strange. Not really in an obvious, out-there, scream-in-your-face sort of way that would send anyone else straight to the dorm manager to get him kicked out. No, he just unsettles you more the longer you are around him. He is (much to your detriment) your weird roommate, the one that, somehow, by God's miracle, manages to squeeze himself into your now established and brand new, shiny friend group—the one you have been fantasizing about since junior year. 

Like a little parasite leeching off of your hard earned grub. That's what he is.

And it’s not like he doesn’t have his own little group. Amber, William, Eve, and whoever else happens to trail after him. You’ve met them. One night, Mark dragged you out after some girl bailed on you. Bowling, of all things. You ended up talking to his friends between gutter balls and cheap beer, even inviting them over afterward, like any normal, decent person would.

From what you could tell, they adored him (which, honestly, still amazes you). William’s been his best friend since they were kids; Eve’s practically glued to him; and he used to have a thing with Amber, though neither of them talk about it much.

But apparently, all that affection isn’t enough. It never is.

He still needs more.

More of what? You couldn’t say.

But you’ve got theories.

Attention is one of the things he wanted more of, you're sure of it. Because somehow, some way, Mark was popular. The weirdo with a porn stash and bruises on his knuckles no one seemed to notice but you, is well-liked.

But you know better. 

Mark is anything but ditzy and cute. He overshares with strangers, undershares with friends, chews pens to ruin. He mutters and murmurs, eyes always far-away until they find yours in the crowded cafeteria. You know Mark. How could you not? He's your roommate—truly yours until university comes to an end. He makes that clear all the time. 

And yet, despite all of that, Mark was cool. And you were, decidedly, not. 

Not that you could blame anyone. You have your own little list of charming quirks. You manage to bristle at everything now, the early excitement of life on campus now gone. Game nights, campus traditions? The forced cheeriness of freshmen still trying to find themselves? You hate it now. It feels too close to the person you were before Mark—a quiet, unwelcome reminder that months later, you’re still chasing the same need to fit somewhere.

You are a dick and a hypocrite. Always have been. At night, when you come home late from some late night lecture, you can hear Mark's panting through walls that only imply a boundary between hall and dorm, and you stand there wondering if being self-aware of that fact absolved you of it. 

Who even uses porn mags anymore?

By the third semester you're wrung dry of pleasantries, and even the few people you'd managed to keep close begin to pull away. Texts are left unanswered. Invitations stop flowing in, and suddenly you find yourself on the outside looking in. Again. 

You swore things were going to be different. This wasn’t supposed to be another high school rerun—you at a table by yourself, chewing a sad sandwich and blasting pirated songs just so you wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. You're not about to be that loser with no friends again.

As the lecture winds down, you rush up the stairs, palms already clammy and slick with nerves from rehearsing this moment over and over again in your head. You try to look casual, offering a smile you pray isn't coming apart at the edges.

"Hey, man!" you call out, catching one of the friends you made during this course. He turns, and your limbs feel heavier when his mouth ticks into a frown. "I, uh, heard you guys were going out later. Cool if I come along?" 

How pathetic is it to ask to be invited? You want to crawl into the nearest mouse hole and never come out. 

"Uh..." he hesitates and somehow that's the worst part. "I don't know. You should ask Jenna though, she planned the whole thing, so..." 

He gives you nothing more than a non-committal shrug, as if you don't even know each other, and turns to leave for lunch. 

You are left standing there like an idiot. 

What stings most this time is that you can't even pinpoint the reason. 

Eventually, the truth becomes impossible to ignore. You’re struggling, and Mark… isn’t. Most of your old friends seem to drift toward him without hesitation, leaving you orbiting the edges with a dull, familiar ache in your chest. Every time, without fail, he gets the invite, and you don’t.

Just being around him starts to hurt. You begin noticing the little things you used to shrug off: the dirty dishes he eventually washes hours later; the pile of laundry he never picks up; the way he refuses to dry off in the communal bathroom because it’s ‘right next to our room,’ as if that somehow makes it your problem, too.

He strolls in now, dripping water across the entire floor, wearing nothing but—

"Dude…" you mutter, stepping sharply to the side, trying to avoid brushing against him even though his broad shoulders take up half the hallway by themselves.

It's almost unfair how built he is. All lean definition—not overly bulky or exaggerated, just naturally strong in a way that makes you feel painfully aware of your own angles and edges. 

Every movement pulls another line of muscle into view, like his body is reminding you how annoyingly put-together it is. When he moves, the muscles in his back flex and shift, and you catch a glimpse of scars—thin, pale lines slashing across his skin. They're faint, but definitely there.

You should not find that hot. Matter of fact, you don’t. You want to wring his neck for this—for everything. Give him new scars and bruises to worry about.

"I’ll clean it, don’t worry!" he promises. You know he won’t.

In a choice you can’t help but despise yourself for, you stay close to him. Grudgingly. Against every instinct telling you to cut and run. There’s something about him—that magnetic pull that keeps everyone orbiting him like planets. You can’t bring yourself to drift away, not when there’s nothing else left for you to orbit around.

You don’t really have a choice, you tell yourself.

Mark notices the change almost immediately. The moment you actually say yes to one of his invitations (Mark being the only one who invites you anywhere anymore), he throws you a knowing grin. He leans over the back of the couch, arms folded, face far too close to yours.

"Seriously?" he asks, voice lilting with teasing disbelief.

"Yeah," you reply curtly, sharp as ever. You can see his stupid, smug smile—the one with malicious intent specifically for you—without even turning your head. You keep your eyes glued to your phone, to a feed with nothing new and no notifications. No messages. No news.  

Nothing but him.

"Seriously?" he repeats, grinning like a man who’s moments away from being institutionalized.

"Yes, seriously. What’s your problem?" you hiss at him.

"We’re going to a comic store," he announces, pushing himself off the couch. The air relaxes a little, though the heat of him lingers on your neck.

That’s the beginning of something.

At first, you think nothing of it. He’s just one of those people—annoying and touchy and clingy by nature, harmless in intent. You figure you’ll learn to tune him out. But the longer you hang out, the more regularly, he comes into focus.

You start noticing the little things he does when you’re in a crowd. The way he laughs at a joke, the pout when someone takes a jab at him. You notice how he always keeps you close too, how that seems to unsettle the others. Your friends (the ones who’ve gradually stopped inviting you out) begin giving you glances that are more nervous than cold, like they aren’t quite sure how to act anymore. They just accept it after a while.

"You smell really good," he says, so casually, so easily that no one even bats an eye. And really, why would anyone? It’s a normal sentence. A normal thing to say to a friend, a compliment. But he leers when he says it, smiling with only one corner up, eyes blank. Like he’s staring right through you, somewhere else entirely. Like he’s imagining things he can’t say just yet.

It all leaves you more bothered than you care to admit. Never in your life have you had this sort of attention on you, and now that you do, you’re left clueless about how to actually deal with it. Though, really, it’s not the attention that bothers you—more the fact that it comes from Mark.

And you’re stressed. The end of the semester creeps in faster and faster, deadlines you’ve pushed aside pile up, and finals and presentations are all anyone talks about. You need some release. You need to get away from Mark and that itch tugging just beneath your skin every time he gets close enough to breathe down your neck.

So, just like before, you look for a solution. A solution in the form of a date. A girl, right in front of you. An absolute beauty, really, with long black curls and full lips. The kind of girl who could have anyone she wants, and yet she actually agreed to meet up again. Another date, another chance to fit in, to find someone.

The restaurant is cozy, warm light spilling over mismatched furniture that somehow works. Music hums softly as she laughs at something dumb you say—soft, breathy giggles and huffs as she tries to hold herself back. She’s sweet, witty. And with every bit of banter she throws back, you’re hit with the same realization again and again: she’s so far out of your league it isn’t even funny anymore.

A couple years older than you. Lives alone in her own apartment with actual furniture. Plants that are alive and thriving. She even shows you a picture. No roommates barging in at 1 a.m., no one staring at you in some awkward, invasive way.

She’s confident, sharp, independent. You make a joke about cooking and cleaning for her—half-serious, half-self-deprecating—and she slinks a hand across the table to find yours in a bold move that makes your ears burn.

You both laugh, and she lets go with a dismissive wave. Things seem to be going well.

So why the hell aren’t you feeling it?

You shift in your seat, restless, your knee bouncing beneath the table as you rub your clammy hands up and down your thighs. At some point her words blend together with the music and you struggle to find appropriate answers within your limited repertoire of 'that's crazy', 'no way,' and 'that's so cool.'

You're pent up, is a better way to put it. You were desperate at this point. Because the truth was, you didn't care much for her laugh or her plans or her apartment. 

You just wanted to get your dick wet.

And fuck, you hate yourself for it. The grin on your face grows more tense with every passing minute. You practically drag her all the way over here, knowing full well you’re only going after one thing.

Despite all odds, you know you’re not the best of people. In fact, you’re painfully aware of it. Mediocre at just about everything. Not especially charming, not particularly ambitious, not even all that kind. But somehow, it always seemed… enough. Or at least, good enough for you. You never ask for much, and you try to give back whatever you can, even if what you have to offer has always been meager.

No one really sticks around anymore.

Except for—

Your name cuts through the chatter of the restaurant. It makes your breath catch, turns you into a statue in front of your date. The restless bounce of your leg stops dead. Your heart drops into your stomach when her words trail off, eyes flicking over your shoulder to the very person you’ve been avoiding.

"Um, I think someone’s here for... you," she says with an awkward laugh.

"Oh Jesus Christ..."

In a desperate and utterly futile attempt to just disappear, you hunch forward in your seat, hand covering your face like some celebrity hiding from paparazzi.

But before you even process what’s happening, an arm slings itself over your shoulders, dragging you upright again, his hip pressing against your side as he squeezes into your personal space.

"Mark…" You offer a tense smile, and he gives your chest a few overly friendly, patronizing pats—like you’re not a person but a shiny new car he’s trying to show off. "What are you doing here?"

"Lookin’ good there," Mark drawls, his voice a little too cheerful even as it dips. "This your date?"

Your date blinks, startled at being addressed, fingers tightening around her glass as her gaze flickers between the two of you.

You sigh, teeth gritting. "Yeah, so—"

And he has the audacity to start talking. Jesus. You want nothing more than for the ground to swallow you whole. Even with his arm wrapped around you, you sink lower in your chair, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to sting.

"Mark—" you try to cut in, voice tight, but he steamrolls right over you, tone rising just enough to make you shut up.

For fuck’s sake. You shoot your date a small, apologetic smile that cracks around the edges and leaks manufactured confidence like a faulty faucet—just a slow drip at first as you manage to squeeze in a few words here and there to salvage your dignity. But Mark keeps going, bringing up that one time you threw up at a party. Or when he tells her about the date who bailed on you. Or when—

"Dude, what are you even doing here?" you blurt out, sharper this time, your jaw aching from how hard you’ve been clenching it.

Mark barely glances your way, shrugging casually, half-draped over your body and rambling about fond memories only one of you actually has. "Just grabbing food for William," he replies in that annoying, breezy tone.

You’re about to snap at him when you feel it again: his hand.

It slides to the back of your neck, fingers settling onto your skin in a way so familiar it makes your stomach twist. They splay across your nape like he owns the very ground you’re standing on, and he squeezes just hard enough to make sure you feel it.

Heat shoots up your neck, your face flushing as your teeth grind together so hard you swear he can hear it. You want to tear his hand off, snap and bite at him, tell him to fuck off and leave you alone right here in front of everyone. But you don’t. Obviously. Because you can feel your date’s eyes on you, on Mark, and you can definitely sense some kind of judgement from her.

"And dude, he’s sooo pent up."

You choke on your own spit. "What? No, I’m not."

She makes an awkward little noise, fingers worrying the stem of the sparkling-water glass she’s been nursing the entire time. With every passing second, you want to die a little more.

Mark doesn’t stop. "No, seriously! He just hasn’t gone out in, like, so long. But it’s cool. Like I said, pent up." He pauses for a second, grin turning crooked.

"Oh, you should’ve seen it. He’s got, like, a whole stack of porn mags under his bed. I mean, who even buys those anymore? Like, it’s the 21st century, dude. I caught him once—" Mark says, already grinning like an idiot, barely able to keep from laughing. "And I swear, he just froze and started crying. Like—actual tears."

You nearly knock over your drink trying to get up, flustered and angry, before Mark’s fingers clamp playfully, keeping you down like a disobedient dog. "Mark, stop—"

"No, no—wait, I’m not done, dude!" he snorts through a wheeze, waving a hand at your date as her expression turns grim and uncomfortable. "And he’s a total cries-during-sex kinda guy. Not in a cute way, either. Just full-on, ‘God, I hate myself’ kind of sobbing."

What the hell is he doing? What the hell is happening? Mark is talking so much bullshit you don’t even have the brain capacity to form a proper sentence. You gape like an idiot. She gawks too, face drained of color.

"I do... not," you finally manage to croak.

"He so does!" Mark cackles, voice carrying across the restaurant. The tables closest to you share confused glances or snicker, enjoying the little show for all it’s worth. "But hey—" Mark’s voice dips, thumb grazing the edge of your hair,"I mean, he looks so good when he cries."

"Shut up! Jesus—" you snap, shooting to your feet, face burning hot, fists clenched at your sides. "I don't! I mean—I don’t—"

But she’s already standing too, her chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. Without even sparing you a glance, she digs a few folded bills from her purse and tucks them neatly under her now-empty glass of water.

"I think I’m gonna go," she says quietly, flatly, final.

"You’re gonna believe him?" you choke out, half laughing in disbelief, gesturing sharply at Mark before shoving him off you when you feel the stares of every single table settle on you. 

She doesn’t reply. You watch helplessly as she slips on her coat and really, you can’t even blame her. It makes sense—it does. A guy who keeps this kind of company, willingly or not, isn’t exactly a green flag. "Seriously?" you call after her anyway.

Behind you, Mark doesn’t even bother looking up. He’s already slid into her now-vacant seat, legs sprawled lazily as he picks at her fries without a care in the world, even as nearby tables begin to murmur.

Mark snickers from his new throne. It gives him the absolute perfect view to enjoy the show happening just outside the restaurant. Others follow his example, leaning back when the door closes with a little jingle, your muffled argument playing out behind thick glass. You stumble after her, hands moving in clumsy arcs and frustrated gestures, your lips pulling back in a snarl.

She doesn’t react until you say something particularly scathing. Then she steps toward you, jabbing a sharp nail into your chest, refusing to budge.

This time you finally snap, shouting something you know you’re going to regret the second it leaves your mouth—and her hand comes down hard across your cheek.

Mark winces, but his grin only widens as he and the others let out a long, mocking: "Ooooh..."

Then her Uber rolls up to the curb. You flip her off as she storms away, hurling one last insult over her shoulder, one you fire right back without thinking.

"Duuude!" Mark drawls as you walk back in, rubbing your red cheek, ring marks already blooming. Mark zeroes in on them, practically drooling; he has to swallow before he keeps going. "That was insane."

"You’re a fucking dickhead," you mutter under your breath, then drive your foot hard into his shin beneath the table. The flimsy legs groan under the jolt, dishes clinking. He hisses sharply, teeth flashing in a grin as he reaches down to rub the spot. Across from him, your fingers absently trace the marks on your face, almost in sync, as though the two of you are mocking each other’s bruises in silence.

Despite your aching cheek and foul mood, you manage to eat what’s left. It’d be a waste not to, especially since Mark promised to pay ‘as a form of reparations’. At least he knows he fucked it all up.

You start cataloguing Mark’s touches months ago, noticing them for the first time with a mix of irritation and disbelief. The small taps, the brushes that linger just a second too long, the nudges you once thought accidental—none of it is. 

And once you notice, you can’t stop.

He’s always there. Poking your side when you reach for something, nudging your shoulder when you’re not looking, elbowing your ribs just hard enough to make you flinch. A tug at your hair, a slap on your waist, a hand brushing the back of your neck. Always close, always touching.

"Dude!" You slap his hand away for the umpteenth time, straightening your back with a pop to hide the way you bristle every time he does that. "Can you not? I’m eating."

Mark just chuckles, a squeak and a snort finding their way into his voice as he draws his hand back to his side. "It’s funny, c’mon!" He shrugs. "You gotta loosen up."

That was the original plan, you think bitterly.

Mark has always been off like that. He says things he probably really shouldn’t. Stuff that might seem innocent on the surface, but if you hear him right the first time, it makes you pause. And half the time, you can’t tell if he’s joking or just doesn’t give a fuck about boundaries.

Either way, it always leaves you hollow and sick for a while, like his words are sticking to your ribs, refusing to be digested.

"Yeah, right, loosen up," you scoff, sinking your teeth into your sandwich like it might start fighting back.

"Exactly!" he says, scooting closer, knees nearly bumping yours. Mark’s grin widens while his eyes stay oddly flat."Need a massage? Something to loosen the tension?"

You don’t answer. His voice drops low enough to crawl up your spine. "Don’t feel bad. I bet she won’t make it home anyway."

That one leaves a bad taste in your mouth, your lips curling into a frown. You don’t bother hiding your disgust this time. A year and a half of this, and you’re tired. Tired of him. Tired of laughing it off like everyone else does.

Groaning, you force another bite of ham and cheese down your throat, hoping it’ll make the lump there disappear.

"Just shut up and eat your food," you say flatly.

It’s not until the ride home that you finally admit the date didn’t really matter. Never did, if you think about it. You’re not heartbroken, disappointed, or annoyed anymore. If anything, you’re frustrated. Mark had been right—terribly enough. You are pent up.

Mark drives, filling the silence with a few small jabs, nothing more. There’s a dull ache where your date hit you—a parting gift from your public humiliation, as Mark had so delightfully described it—and you’re grimacing more and more by the time you dig into your pockets for your keys.

Just as you’re about to slide the key into the lock, an arm slings heavy around your shoulder, the gesture so familiar you don’t even bother groaning or sighing. Mark drags you a step back, pressing in close, crowding you against the door. You feel his breath skim your neck, see his shadow stretch long and sharp in the flickering hallway light.

"What?" you turn, just enough to catch a glimpse of his expression—only to meet him halfway. His hand comes up suddenly, fingers catching your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

Your breath hitched, lips pressed into a thin line as you held back the retort itching behind your teeth. He stares. And you let him.

"Gotta take care of that," he mumbles, gaze lingering on your bruises longer than necessary before shoving your face aside like it’s in his way.

"Wha—?" The keys slip from your grip into his, and he fumbles with the lock until the door finally gives way.

Your goddamn heart pounds like a drum.

The dorm's as you left it. The boxes are long gone. Mark's side is full of seance dog merch and old sheets you know you're gonna have to toss in with your laundry next week. With a grumbled complaint, you move to your bed, tense shoulders easing instantly despite the firmness of your bed.

Mark all but flops onto his bed with a loud sigh, turning on the lava lamp on his side. The soft hum of it was good enough to fill the silence. The glow of it lights the room in a cool blue, neon wax moving up and down in a hypnotizing rhythm. It's almost nice. Almost.

Your cheek still aches, and you have half a mind to make sure to check it out later. 

But right now, you can't be bothered. You're too pent up, you're too tense, you need to relax. 

Without another word, you reach over, pulling out a cigarette rolling paper box and an old zip lock bag. 

Mark's voice cuts through. He's been staring. "Duuude! Are you kidding me?" he laughs, eyes crinkling.

"No," was all you say as you begin this routine you've developed since you were freshly fifteen. 

You cross your legs, box and bag in front of you and begin. It's a ritual, something to keep your hands busy and your mind empty. It relaxes you just as much as you know this weed will. But now you can feel Mark's eyes on you, weighing you down, making you just the slightest bit clumsier.

It’s only once you have your first joint between your fingers, tongue swiping along the edge, that he finally comes over. He stops at the side of your bed, already flicking a lighter open and shut, holding it out for you like he's being of service.

You only hold the tip to the flame, inhaling, pulling back. You keep it in long enough to open your window and let the smoke curl outside. It's stupid, any dickhead passing by could've smelt it, but you can't bring yourself to care. 

"What?" you demand when you turn back, the joint hanging between your teeth. He's just standing there, watching with a sick sort of adoration in his eyes. 

"You gonna make me one?" he asks. 

His audacity makes you laugh, the sound bitter and cruel, and for the first time, you actually indulge him. He slides onto the bed opposite of you, the mattress dipping under his weight, and the weed nearly spills onto your sheets before you manage to roll the damn thing.

He crawls closer just to watch, leaning over your set up as your tongue flicks along the paper, sealing it closed. You shove your things aside without thinking, too aware of how close he is, how easily his presence fills the space around you now after you've had months to get used to him.

"There." You hand him the joint, and he pops it into his mouth like it’s nothing. But then he grabs your throat—firm, insistent—and draws you a little closer, leaning in until the tip of his joint hovers near yours.

You suck in a sharp breath as the smoke curls into your lungs, husky and acrid and not enough for this situation. The tip glows brighter against yours, warm and startling against his fingers.

"Nice," Mark murmurs, taking his own drag and leaning back slightly, leaving you momentarily dazed, the heat of him lingering even as he lets go. "Thanks, man." 

Holy shit. If only—if only the person in front of you wasn’t Mark, of all people. If only his shirt didn’t drape over his torso so perfectly. If only his arms weren’t so huge, so impossibly strong. If only that joint didn’t hang between his fingers and lips like it belonged there—like he does this all the time. This was your thing. 

Your mind grows fuzzier after twenty minutes, your second joint already crumbling. And Mark is quiet. Weirdly enough. He's behaving. You don't even need to tell him to puff the smoke out the window. 

With a final drag, you throw the butt out of the window, watching it disappear into the brush below. It's 1AM, and it's you staring at Mark this time. 

He's keeping pace, almost done with his second. You reach to make yourself another but he stops you. "What d'you want?" you gruff. 

"C'mere," he demands sweetly. Or maybe his voice is sweet because of the weed turning your brain fuzzy. He beckons, and against your better judgement, you lean forward. 

He brings the joint to his lips, sucking in the final bits of it, and you watch, half-fascinated and half-annoyed. You could be rolling your own joint right about now, and he—

Mark scoops you closer by the back of your head, tilting it just right before pushing his lips against yours. A confused whine escapes your throat, hands pushing against his shoulders in protest as you keep your mouth stubbornly shut against his insistent kiss. His eyes are wide and determined, brows pinching as he bullies his tongue into your mouth. Your lips slot together forcefully, and you feel the hot smoke invade your senses. It burns on your taste buds, your nostrils until you manage to swallow it into your lungs. 

When he finally pulls away, you're left light-headed and dazed, the rest of the pot curling from the corners of your mouth. 

"What the fuck…" was all you manage to say, the words coming out far too breathless, far too slurred.

But Mark doesn't stop there. He can't. Not when you're this high, this pliant in front of him, not when he's finally gotten the smallest taste of something he's wanted for months. "Gonna help you out, okay? Gonna make you feel good," he mutters under his breath, before taking one last rushed drag from the ends of his joint and flicking the dying thing out the window. 

He's moving while you attempt to process what is happening, crowding you against the headboard, letting a hand rest beside your head while the other settles at your hip. He surrounds you completely, and in your weed-hazed mind, all you can focus on is the way his lips part just as he kisses you again. 

"Dude—wait—!" You kick, shove at him weakly, your pride flaring up when you realize this was Mark—your dickhead roommate who just ruined your date and your chance at getting laid. The guy who pinches and kicks and spits in your drink just to be annoying. 

He ignores you. He's too far gone to care about ‘dude’ or ‘wait’ right now. And just like that he forces your lips apart, harder this time, less clumsy, more certain. Your eyes roll to the back of your skull for a second as he forces pot down your throat again, your nose scrunching at burn and the smell. 

Your fists shove at his shoulders, but he doesn’t even rock back. And it's messy—the way he kisses you. He drags his lips against yours like he's trying to pull that familiar resistance out of you and hold it back at the same time. Like he wants the fight and the surrender in the same breath. 

Smoke still lingers between you, curling around your faces, the scent clinging to him and invading your senses every time he leans in again. It makes everything feel hazy, distorted, the world of deadlines and failed dates narrowing down to the warm, rough press of his mouth. He bites down on your lower lip, pulling it back until you both taste iron. 

"Fuuuck yeah," he laughs like a hyena, squeaky and breathy, swiping his tongue over the wound.

That’s disgusting, you think—right as he dives back in. And before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing him back. Hard. Angry. Frustrated. A part of you hates it, hates yourself for it, hates that after months of resenting him, you’re letting him climb all over you. You let him grab at you, kiss you, bite you, and you're doing fuck-all to stop him. 

Another part's shoving a leg between his thighs just to feel the outline of his cock against your knee. He twitches violently, hot and heavy even in his jeans, and Jesus, your mouth's already watering.

When he pulls away for a second, you feel it, the way he humps your leg for some kind of proper friction. For the first time ever, Mark's losing it. Like, completely. You wonder if it’s the weed or if he’s just as frustrated as you are.

He pulls away for just a second, a whimper escaping his lips as he sucks in a sharp breath. He grinds against your leg, jaw clenching shut as if this was better than coke and heroin combined, and your cock twitches at the sound he makes when you push your thigh into him.

"You're seriously acting like a fucking dog," you remark, tone flat, lips twisting into something that barely qualifies as a smile. You wonder again, maybe it was the date. A flicker of amusement sparks in your chest as you consider it—was he jealous?  

You like the thought.

Mark only groans into your neck at that. The word doesn't even phase him, not really. Not in the way you probably intended. No, some stupid part of his brain doesn't even register that comment as criticism or an insult.

"What about it?" he rumbles, challenge in every syllable as he drags his teeth across your throat. 

You can't help the shiver that passes through you. "What? You gonna piss on me next?" You laugh, head tilting to the side to give him more. 

He snarls at your taunt, his entire body tensing just when he pulls back. For a second, you're disappointed, scowling at the loss of warmth. But then he's suddenly manhandling you like a doll, lifting your legs without warning and forcing them around his waist. He yanks you closer, grinds down against you in one sharp motion that leaves you breathless.

"Shut up," he huffs, voice stuck somewhere between a growl and a desperate whine as his forehead drops to your shoulder. His breathing's equally ragged, whatever confidence crumbling with just a few shallow thrusts. "I'm trying to be fucking romantic here." 

"Romantic—?" Your laugh is cut off by a sound so pathetic it makes you wince. The outline of Mark's cock drags along your own, the friction dulled by the layers of clothes and the fog in your head. Holy shit, you want nothing more than to fuck him for real. Get your dick wet like you needed for months now. Nobody wants you anymore. Not like Mark wants you right now. 

"Yeah, romantic!" he chuckles like you're stupid. "I took you out to dinner, didn't I?"

"That is the dumbest thing I have ever–"

His teeth sank down into the meat of your shoulder. You gasp, body jolting as your hands slip into his already-mussed hair. He shudders at the sudden pull, a low sound breaking from him, a sharp sound he can't swallow fast enough. His hands tighten around your waist, moving you against him like he was trying to fuck you through every layer, even when you tug at him to slow down. 

Of course he doesn't though. "Shut it," he snapped again, his mouth moving back down to press harsh kisses across whatever skin he could reach. "Just shut the fuck up and let me do this for you." 

With a stuttered breath, you follow his lead—maybe for the first time. Your head tips back, shoulders loosening as your hips fall into the rhythm, matching his grinding without another thought.

This is stupid, you think as you feel his cold fingers slip beneath your shirt and press into your flushed skin. This was stupid and pathetic. 

You hate Mark. You loathe him. Every instinct in your gut twists at the sight of his smile, all sharp edges and no mercy. Yet the moment you need something, you let him take over. Completely. You always do. He just knows you too well. Knows what toothpaste you buy, knows your playlists by heart, knows the color of every shirt and pair of socks and boxer briefs in your drawer because he's poked through your things more times than you can count. He's slipped into every corner of your life, seeped in like a leak you don't care about anymore. 

And as much as you hate it, you let him. Because it’s easy. Because it’s familiar. Because everyone else left—and he's here. 

And right now, he's prying your shirt off of your body just to sink his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder, your chest, your stomach, the fat of your hip. "Mark—!" you protest when your shirt snags halfway over your head, your voice muffled before you finally yank it free with a surprised yelp. He marks as much as he can, only offering little licks and kisses across the forming bruises when you snarl and push at his head—it's an apology you both know he doesn't mean.

"'s too late to be shy now." Mark's becoming more impatient by the second, pressing his face into your stomach as he drags you down the bed. You’re all he’s ever wanted, he thinks when you yelp at another bite.Grinning, he places one final kiss to your hip and kneels on the bed between your thighs, legs thrown across his broad shoulders. 

"Fuuuck, come on." You buck your hips into his face. "Dude..!" The sounds coming out of your mouth are so needy you almost don't recognize your own voice. Mark doesn’t reply. Instead, he stares, lips pulled back into a knowing grin. You're on the verge of begging, and he knows it.

You cave. "Please. Don’t be a dick." 

Your jeans are off in a matter of seconds.

The sight has him drooling. Fuck, you look perfect–propped up on your elbows, eyes half-lidded and distant, lip caught between your teeth as you waited oh-so patiently. You're needy and helpless and wrecked the way he always was for you, your dick so hard it leaves a print in your boxer briefs. He hasn't even done anything yet and he can already see a wet spot where your tip was leaking for him. 

"You're so hard, dude!" he purrs, nuzzling into your lap and forcing your legs around his head like you were some chick he was gonna eat out. "This all for me?" 

"Stop stalling." Your fingers tangle into his locks, sinking your nails into his scalp just to hear another pleased whimper from him.

"Yeah, yeah.." 

Your boxers join the pile of clothes on the floor, and you shiver at the sudden breeze that comes from being exposed. Your cock lays lazily on your stomach, a bead of precum bubbling at the tip. He rumbles in approval as he sucks another mark into your skin, the sound low and rough and absolutely wrecked by how much this was getting to him too. "Does this usually happen when you fuck someone?" he asks.

Mark lets his free hand slip down your chest, stomach, waist. "What d’you mean?" you ask, when he finally wraps his fingers around your aching cock. You sigh as relief floods your body, bucking into his hand for more. "Do you get all pliant like this?" he continues to prod. His thumb presses into the slit of your cock just to watch you jerk underneath him again.

"FFffuuuck—" you hiss, jaw clenching when he rubs the rough pad of his thumb into the sensitive skin. 

Mark only adjusts his position, nearly folding you in half just to jerk you off and watch your mouth fall open in broken moans. The weed hits harder than you expect. Everything is turned up too high. You feel his breath ghost over the top of your head, the slow burn as he bends you over with ease, the rough callouses on the pads of his fingers as his hand continues to stroke you slowly.

Everything is sharper and fuzzier at the same time, and somehow it all blends together until you feel like you're melting straight into the mattress. Soft and weightless. You're floating, literally on cloud nine, and all you can do is breathe and—

A hand jerks your head down by the jaw. "Answer the question, smartass." 

Right. Right, of course. 

"Yeah, tha's what happens," you slur, leaning into his touch when your head begins to feel too heavy to hold up. Heat pools in your abdomen, hips twitching, chasing after the feeling. 

Mark's breath hitches at the admission, a small victorious smile gracing his lips. "Really?" he cackles. "No wonder no one wants to fuck you. You're just taking it! No fight in you at all anymore, huh?" 

He drags his thumb across the tip once more before finally giving in and wrapping a proper fist around you, stroking faster like some shitty reward for being honest. It sends a sharp bolt of pleasure up your spine, your back snapping into an involuntary arch. 

"Yes! Yeah... Oh my God..." you reply without thinking, head gone hazy after just a few pumps. You can't think about anything else anymore—just the way his hand fits around you so perfectly, how he twists it with every upward stroke. You're losing your damn mind. 

He smirks down at you, thriving off how easily you were melting. His grip tightened, speeding up those lazy pumps until he could feel the way your body tensed beneath him. He cups the side of your face, the motion almost loving, romantic like he wanted—and then he opens his mouth.

"You're all fucked out already. And I haven't even gotten my mouth on ya yet." He gives your cock a languid stroke, moving down again your body close enough that his breath ghosts over where you were slick and hard for him. "You gonna come like this? Or do I have to work harder?"

And you're nothing if not putty in his arms. "Gonna—" You push up, the tip kissing his lips. 

Mark's pupils blow wide at your pleading, and his tongue darts out to taste the hint of you lingering on his mouth. "Jesus, you're easy. And for me of all people." 

There's a sharp retort somewhere in the back of your mind, a half of you that wants to shove him off of your dick and walk out the door, find someone to fuck if only to soothe your bruised ego. You aren't some whore who gives it up without a fight. But you aren’t exactly fighting him off, and you can blame the weed all you want—this still feels too damn good.

"Just do what you're doing and lemme finish this, alright?" He gives your tip one final chaste kiss, one final teasing stroke—and then you feel the warmth of his mouth envelop you whole, tongue pressing against a vein on the underside like he knew it was there from the very beginning. He sucks, cheeks hollowing and—

Bingo!

Mark groans around you, tasting you right at the source when he feels your stomach tense and your legs clamp around his head. "Fuck—Mark, wait!" you whimper, stars exploding behind your eyes. But it's too late. You're coming into his mouth, pulsing with the need to stay inside that warmth only for him to pull away with a wet pop. 

"Nice... There it is..." he hums, more than satisfied with how your dick twitches with each pathetic spurt across your stomach. 

You feel like jelly. You've been feeling like that for a while. Limbs already heavy as all the tension drains out of you. "You taste really good, dude," Mark drawls just before his tongue drags another filthy stripe up your cock, refusing to give you a second. "Like, really good." 

With a bitten back whimper, you grab a fistful of his hair, fingers digging into the skin of his scalp to get his mouth off of you. "H-Hoooly—fuck, Mark—" 

But he moves without a care in the world, moaning around you, humming with every bob of his head like he's doing this more for himself than you—like he doesn't care if your cock turns numb. He wants you hard. He wants you ready, and he lets his teeth graze that vein again just to make sure you got the message.

Mark groans around you again, the sound vibrating through your whole body as his tongue swirls around your sensitive tip. Your hips buck into his mouth, seeking and rejecting all at once until his hand comes up. HIs fingers splay across your abdomen, and he makes sure to hold your wriggling body down as he takes inch after inch into his mouth, the noises he doesn't bother hiding muffled around your cock. 

Only when he sees your eyes fluttering, lashes damp, does he pull off of you. Mark licks his lips like he's savoring something delicious. 

"Fuck you, dude—" you rasp.

"Seriously?" he laughs. His thumb presses into the frenulum of your oversensitive cock once more, teasing, testing how much more you could really take before breaking that stubborn streak you always had. You shuddered. "You've been trying to get laid for months!" he says, "I'm jus' finally giving you what you need. Matter of fact, you should be thanking me. So, don't go whining now when you finally get it." 

His voice dips lower then. "Unless you wanna tap out now? Like some pussy—" 

"Fuck no," you bit out. The last thing you wanted to do at that moment was give him another ego boost. That's what you tell yourself when his pupils dilate and he flips you onto your stomach without so much as a warning. The sharp movement has your head reeling, mind staggering a few paces behind even as he pressed the side of your face into the bed. 

Mark hikes your hips up, gets your knees under you before you could even think to squirm out of this. When the realization hits, the gears in your head grinding into place, you kick, absolutely offended by the scandalous angle he got from this. "Get off of me!" 

"Stay down," he growls, dodging one weak kick before he grabs hold of your waist with an iron grip. He leans over you like a warning, weighing you down until you stop struggling so much. 

"Don't look," you demand faintly, face burning when you manage to glare up at him. How you'd love to fuck that smug expression off his face.

Mark has the audacity to laugh. "I told you," he murmurs against the shell of your ear, biting down hard enough for you to flinch. "It's too late to be shy now."

He reaches over, pumping your leaking dick casually even though it ripped a pathetic sound from your throat. His fingers squeeze with deliberate cruelty, milking you like you still had something to give.

"And you know what?" he added with a loving hum. "You're doing real great, babe." 

His mouth was back on your neck, his clothed cock jerking into your ass. Mark's barely holding back, forehead falling against your shoulder blade. "I swear to God... I'm gonna fuck you up worse than this. Gonna fuck you up so bad, dude, you won't know where I start and you end..." he mutters, licking a stripe up the back of your neck before biting down. 

You barely notice the click-ziiip of his pants in your weed induced state when he finally frees his aching cock. The tip's red, already wet with precum as he strokes himself to your sighs and whimpers. You only notice when his free hand comes up to force you to look while he guides himself right against where you were needy for him. 

"Oh shit." Your breath hitches when the tip brushes teasingly over your tight entrance. And you realize too late that this asshole didn't bother prepping you. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there even as you fight through the weed-haze in your head—too look—just to make sure that he really, truly—

"Wait! Wait, wait wait, you— you gotta prep me, dude! I'm not a—I'm not a girl—" 

Mark only growls. "You're no fun, dude." 

And still he obliges, shrugging off his shirt, kicking off his pants but not before fishing around for the lube in his pockets. Of course. This asshole probably carries that shit around for 'just in case' moments like this. 

You’re winding up another jab but he’s already popping the cap off, cutting you off before you can protest. "You don't move. Got it?" 

"Whatever, man—" 

He pushes two fingers in, and your whole body tenses against your will. The stretch is sharp, hot, and you come back to earth with the terrifying thought that he was going to fuck you. Actually fuck you. You're letting your shitty roommate jerk you off, finger and fuck you because of what? Why are you—

He pushes another finger in when you bite out another protest, eyes rolling back and hands intertwining behind your head. Mark only shudders as he feels you clench around his fingers. His grip on your neck tightens, barely, forcing you to stay still as you wriggle against him. 

"Fuck, dude. You're gonna take it sooo good." He grins, voice wavering with barely controlled need. "Gonna make sure everyone here knows exactly who owns ya, okay?"

His words spark something like disgust in you—disgust and terrible, shameful bliss. It feels good. Way too good—to be wanted like this, needed. The aching stretch subsides, the lube now warm against your flushed skin. His fingers stuff your hole full, scissoring you open with little resistance, and for once, you're not complaining. 

And then his fingers curl into that sweet spot inside of you, and you clutch the sheets like it’s the only thing grounding you. "You gotta thank me, dude." 

"Why the fuck would I do that?" you hiss into the mattress, cock twitching uselessly in the air.

"Just say thank you!" he demands with a chuckle, the edges of his smile fraying into something dangerous. "It's not that hard, is it?" 

Mark is convinced he’s doing you a favor, giving you exactly what you’ve wanted for far too long. He's watched you stumble through friendships and dates all like a newborn deer, searching for companionship among a sea of idiots. University is supposed to be a fresh start for him, too. Something away from all the violence and pressure of being a so-called ‘hero’.

And here, with you, he's finally got someone who can appreciate his hands, his mouth, his body for more than that. But that doesn't mean he's gonna be soft with you now.

"Or do I gotta force it out of you first?" he scoffs at the way you shake your head, finally pulling his fingers free to open the bottle of lube again. You think he's being kind for a moment, when the cold liquid sends a shiver up your spine, only for the tip of his cock to prod at your empty hole. Oh shit. He holds you by your neck to make sure you can't move an inch as he rocks back and forth, teasing. Threatening. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, and you suck in a sharp breath.

"D'you need one more chance to say it?" he coos, relishing the way you struggle to breathe, let alone answer. "Say thank you, dude. Just say it. Or I can just fuck some manners into you." 

Your eyes widen in a sudden panic. "Thank you," you manage, voice rough, and he shifts his grip, pressing down at the side of your head instead. Your breath stutters."Thank you, thank you—"

His cock presses forward, slowly, giving your body just enough time to adjust. He's so nice like that. 

Mark is every bit as big as you'd thought he'd be. Every inch has you bracing for the next, your lip caught between your teeth as you fight the urge to let out even a single sound. You know better than to give him even that. He’d drink it in, drag it out just to tease you about it for days afterward. It was humiliating, and the mere fact has your dick twitching again.

"Atta boy, babe," he rumbles against the shell of your ear, his hips rolling forward, forcing himself into you inch by inch. His breath hitches when you twitch around him.

"Fffffuuck," you slur, eyes rolling when he pulls back, only for his tip to rub that spot inside you on the way in. How'd he know about that? How'd he know to hold your hips just right, angle them higher and—

"Fuck, you're tight." Mark's voice is nothing more than a breathless moan, lips parted and brows pinched. 

He fills you up every time he pushes his cock into you, has you whining when he drags it back out. You feel him heat up your stomach, a bulge barely visible in your abdomen when you sneak a peek below as you drool into the sheets. Christ, how was that even possible?

It rips a moan from your throat before you could even think about keeping quiet this time, and before you knew it, he was fucking you in earnest, languid thrusts turning punishing within minutes. His hands grip your waist, and you can feel the tip of your dick brushing against your thighs every time he decides to push you far enough to make your knees buckle. 

Mark only grins. "You know, it's kinda funny," he starts, his voice a condescending hum. His pace slows, grinding his pelvis against your ass to savor the way your hole twitches around him. "You're actually really handsome, you know? Nice dick, good arms, all that muscle... And all you can do is take it!" He leans in. "You like this with all your hookups?"

You shake your head, stubborn even now. "Nnno—fuck, Mark…"

He interrupts you with a sharp thrust. "That's it," he praises, the sound of a break from the wet slap of skin on skin, and your pathetic moans. "Just like that, dude. Take every fucking inch."

He drags you back every time his hips snap forward, and it sends a hot rush up your spine, one that threatens to bring you closer and closer and closer to the edge. Your cock bounces in the air, forgotten until Mark's hand wraps around it. Your abdomen tightens instantly, eyes snapping wide and voice cracking as a flurry of curses escapes your lips. "S'too much..!"

"Yeah?"

Mark's hand moves in sloppy tandem with his hips, snapping down with a twist that has you forgetting where you are. Everything blurs together, and before long you're unsure if you're crying or just cross-eyed from overstimulation. 

Mark only presses you down further, the air in your lungs squeezed out as he keeps your body from squirming away. He bullies his cock further into you, the angle he manages to hit mean and unforgiving. You're full, stuffed with the way he's fucking you like a fleshlight. You wonder if you're good enough to replace the one he has. 

"You gonna come? C'mon, dude, lemme feel it. I wanna feel you milk me dry—"

His fingers squeeze tighter around you, and any protest dies in your throat right then and there. Your eyes roll back, you babble out a warning. If Mark replies, you don't hear it. Your orgasm rips through you violently, your mind short-circuiting with white hot flashes that turn you to mush after a second. 

Your cock jumps as you spill across your sheets, but you hardly notice. Mark doesn't let up, doesn't stop jerking you off and fucking into you with enough force to make your whole body twitch and scramble to get away. As always, Mark doesn't let you. 

"I told you not to move, didn't I?" he rasps, though he's nice enough to let go of your aching cock. 

"S'too much, I told you—Fuck, Mark, come on…" you murmur, the words slipping out half-slurred. Whatever resistance you had drains away with them. It feels too good—you feel too good, warm, hazy beneath him. The weed doesn't help, settling in deep, smoothing everything over, easing the leftover ache and nursing it into nothing but pleasure. 

You're babbling, you know you are even if you don't know what you're saying. A minute passes, ten, twenty, you have no idea how long Mark's been using you for but God, you moan out either way, the last bits of resistance finally gone. 

"Feels good now, huh?" Mark asks, and all you can do is nod, drooling into your pillow with glossy eyes.  "You take me so well. dude."

Mark’s movements grow sloppy, loose in a way that has nothing to do with exertion. When you chance a glance back, he’s already staring at you. You caught him. He looks at you with that lovesick look he always hides at the last second, the one he saves for you alone. The one that flashes when he tells a shitty joke and everyone laughs but you.

"Feels good, Mark..." 

He comes before you even finish your sentence, curling over your sweaty body with a ragged groan. He keeps thrusting through it, slow and deep to make sure you feel every bit of him one last time. And you do–you feel him pulse despite the numbness across your body, feel the way he decides to stuff you even further before dragging his heavy cock out with a wet pop. 

And suddenly you're utterly empty, cold when he backs off. Everything hurts. Cold seeps in where the heat was, settling deep, making every bruise and ache flare at once. He stays behind you, patting your side affectionately, almost praising you as he traces the fingerprint bruises he left on you. 

"Can you even stand?" he asks, words layered over a breathless laugh. "Or do I have to patch you up, too?" 

You pitch forward without much grace, your whole body trembling with exhaustion and pain before sagging into the mattress, just managing to roll onto your back. You wince. The carpet beneath you is damp with sweat and cum, but you don’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed or upset about it. You should be.

"Gimme…a minute…" You’re surprised your vocal chords haven’t been completely fried from how loud you were, though the words come out croaked either way. 

That earns you a laugh. "Take all the time you need." Mark watches you struggle to sit up, his grin wide and a little tired. After a minute of fumbling, he decides he’s seen enough. "Yeah, okay." 

You blink when his fingers brush stray strands away from your flushed face. Then his hands are on you again, gentler this time, helping you sit up at least. "Come on…" He nuzzles into your neck even now. "I’ll clean you up."

You can’t help but lean into him, one arm slung around his shoulders to keep steady. "You suck." 

He ignores you. "You look good like this," he snorts at your limp body, and you huff, nose scrunched in half-hearted irritation. "And I was right." 

"Yeah? ‘Bout what?" 

"You look really good when you cry."

Jack would never willingly be on the morning shift if he could help it. His body had become so hardwired into working nights that it felt wrong to not be asleep by this hour. Well… maybe not asleep, but at least lying back in his bed with trash tv buzzing in the background. But apparently the ED were down an attending and he just so happened to be the only one free.

He found himself rushing around residents and nurses all while running on a mix of caffeine and the last half of a sandwich he had leftover in his fridge. The day tasted incredibly bland, like someone forgot to add the teabag to their water, but that worked just fine by him. Being bored was nothing in comparison to the hell that typically got unleashed down here. 

Perhaps it was that blandness that disarmed him so much, the simplicity of a day with nothing special. Residents following him around like ducklings, nurses helping manage patients with ease, and no foul mouthed old woman rolling around to hurl insults. Jack could practically close his eyes and float through the next hour or so. But as all things tend to, the peace did not last. 

A gurney rolled in, on it an older man clutching his head as a teen girl trailed not far behind. A slow stream of blood peeked through the patient’s fingers, likely having been cut a while ago. Jack made his way over alongside two residents who’d been twitching for action. 

“What’s going on today?”

“Hi um-,” the teen stumbled over her words, trembling “my dad he fell and I couldn’t rouse him until we got in the ambulance and I just- I just want to make sure he’s okay”. 

“I’m doing fine, bunny”

And that was enough to get Jack out of his haze. He knew that voice, perhaps a slightly less ragged and more youthful version, but one he knew nonetheless. How the hell could he ever forget it.

“Y/N L/N?” 

“Jackie?” 

Laying in that gurney, bloody but smiling was someone Jack swore he’d never see again. His “bunkmate” from the marines, the man who’d been there with him through all the war and chaos, the one that helped him tourniquet his leg when it was ripped off. The one that used to hold him at night when it all got too much. The one that used to cry into his shoulder and pray he came back safe. The one that he-

Y/N was much greyer than he used to be, a smattering of unkempt stubble making him rugged. Jack was so used to the man’s blunt military haircut that it being anything else made Y/N near unrecognizable to his brain. Perhaps it was also the time apart. 

The teen girl looked between her father and the doctor.

“Are you-”

“Jack Abbot, he was my service buddy!”

Y/N’s smile was painfully infectious even as it strained with a wince from his leaking wound. Jack could only imagine the headache the other man was feeling. His residents looked between each other, shocked to find a piece of their attending’s history dropped right at their doorstep. Jack knew he was going to be bombarded with questions, but that had to wait until Y/N was stable. Luckily the mini doctors seemed to have the same idea as they got their patient settled.

“A head wound do all this to you, L/N?” 

“No way, I’m not that brittle boned” 

The teen’s head perked up, “Exactly! So why the hell did you faint?”

Jack saw it then, that familiar stubbornness and refusal to acknowledge help. Partially learned from combat, but also from Y/N’s natural hatred of being weak. It was a point of contention between them, hypocritically enough. 

“The hit must’ve been pretty bad, I mean look at me”

Y/N tried to smile and gesture to his bloody face but another wince struck him. He wasn’t fooling anybody.

“Dad please-”

“Is it alright if we get some privacy with Mr. L/N?”

The teen looked incredulous, but ultimately let herself be guided away. Her adrenaline high was beginning to wane and the last thing they needed was her collapsing too. Jack watched the girl tremble as she was guided out of earshot. He looked back to see Y/N staring at the same, the smile he had fading into a deep guilt. 

“Fucking hell… I hate seeing her like that”

“Something tells me she hates seeing you like this too” 

Y/N gave a grumble in response, nervously looking around the room, anywhere but Jack. A thought popped into Abbot’s brain for a moment. A bizarre fear that his presence wasn’t wanted for more than just a soldier’s stubbornness. What if, just like the fake smile Y/N wore for his daughter, the way he spoke about being “buddies” with Jack was fake too. Was he not happy to see him? Perhaps the memory was uncomfortable.

No, he couldn’t think about that, he had to focus on work and right now this wasn’t Y/N, this was his patient. 

“So, do you want to tell me what’s actually going on?”

“No, but I don’t think I have a choice”

“Damn right”

Jack pulled Y/N’s hand away from his head, examining the cut. It was primarily shallow, maybe only needing a stitch or some steri strips. He cleaned the blood away carefully, removing streaks at a time. It only made Y/N’s face clearer along with the memories it held. No, no getting distracted, not when he didn’t know what was wrong. 

“I think… it has something to do with my legs”

“Both?”

“No, just the right one”

Jack finished up with his face and moved down to Y/N’s leg, pressing on it slightly. It felt odd, overly solid, kind of like a-

Pulling up the pant leg, Jack revealed a prosthesis underneath. Transfemoral meaning, unlike Abbot’s own, it starts above the knee, but a prosthetic nonetheless. 

“We match” Y/N chuckled, but his eyes remained sad.

“Well shit, thought you would’ve learned from me”

“Apparently not, got the damn thing blown off a couple years back”

Jack moved to detach the device, pulling at the metal and leaving behind the socket. The false leg felt pretty poor quality, unusually balanced and badly fitted. It was already a pain to use a prosthetic meant for you, Jack would hate to imagine the discomfort if it didn’t. Y/N’s eyes focused on him as he peeled away the socket, quite literally as the skin underneath refused to let up. Jack could hear the other man sucking through his teeth as finally the nub was out in the open air. 

It looked… awful. Where the skin should’ve been pinched shut it was instead bursting, somehow both dry and wet all at once. Friction burns twisted the flesh while other parts bulged with a yellowy sheen. Abscesses from infection, probably after Y/N wore the skin down too long, split it open, and didn’t clean.

“Y/N-”

“I know I know, whatever you wanna say save it. I fucked up and skipped maintenance maybe once or twice-”

“This isn’t once or twice, this has to be at least a month of neglect”

Y/N growled, staring back at the wall once more. Jack ushered his residents to go get him supplies and anesthetics. Letting an infection like this sit could be deadly. Jack could already see where a few smaller abscesses had broken open, likely from the pressure of walking around. God, how the hell did Y/N put up with this, let alone get anywhere. 

“We’re gonna take some blood samples, get you antibiotics, then start draining these ugly things. God, L/N how the hell did this happen?” 

“Bum leg, I don’t know. The prosthesis just fucking sucks”

“A prosthesis doesn’t do this on its own, you’ve had to let this happen”

“I KNOW, I fucked up,” Y/N rubbed at his face “things happened, life happened okay?”

Jack swatted Y/N’s hand away before he could open his cut again. He thought back to the teen girl now sitting in the hall, she didn’t seem aware of this. Of course she knew about her dad’s fake leg, especially if he’s had it for as long as he’s said, but the infected nub? No, she had only asked about his head when he got here. 

As his residents returned, Jack quickly got to drawing blood, wincing at the way the veins refused to cooperate. They rolled as if Y/N were dehydrated and at this point Jack wouldn’t put it past him. Abbot barked at his student to get the man’s IV up and pumping. It seemed they too were lulled by the calm of today. That wouldn’t do. 

Jack passed the vials off where they were sent to labs for testing, calling for priority. He needed to make sure the infection was not inside Y/N’s blood or this was about to get a whole lot worse. Fuck, of all the ways to have a reunion with his “wayward” lover why did it have to be like this? Jack wanted more than everything to yell in Y/N’s face for being so reckless, but that anger built with no escape. Instead he sighed and attached the antibiotics, making sure they were being pumped into Y/N’s system. 

“L/N, I’m gonna numb you and then we’re gonna start draining these abscesses. How long have you had these?”

“I don’t know… I noticed them about 5 days ago”

“And you didn’t think to get help?”

“I thought about it”

“But you didn’t”

“Ever the detective” 

Jack sighed, starting his first incision into the yellow boil, carefully working to drain it. The process went by in silence other than the occasional check in from a resident and wince from Y/N. It took some time but eventually the rancid hue had been removed, making the stump now red and raw. 

A voice called out to Abbot from across the hall, a new patient had come in that needed his care. Jack brought over his resident and gave them a rundown of what they needed to do before tossing his gloves into the bin. 

“Come get me if anything changes with Y/N” 

And with that he stalked off to his next patient, leaving his former lover behind once more. He didn’t even bother to look back. Jack tried not to think about the gaze that followed him, both from patients and staff… but mostly from him. 

- 

It had taken about an hour but Jack’s anger finally faded. He didn’t realize how suffocating it was to be around the other man until he finally left. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Y/N, it was just… everything about him threw Jack for a loop. He knew he needed to leave the second he pulled up Y/N’s pant leg, feeling an almost pavlovian response in his body. If he arched them just a tad higher… It had been almost two decades and yet Y/N still had his hold over him. 

Two decades… Some of his residents were younger than that. Jack trailed a hand through his grey hair. It felt wrong to be tied down by something like this, to even be affected by the mere thought of such a flighty relationship. He had long since accepted that Y/N was a figment of the past. Whatever they had was simply two men trying to find comfort where there was none. It was not made to last. And yet his heart tugged every time he passed the man’s gurney. Their “friendship” was… admittedly closer to love than he’d have liked to admit. Late nights spent in each other’s arms, planning fake scenarios for when all the chaos was over, for when the war would end. They knew they were pipedreams, both the end of war and the idea of being together. As long as humans kept living they would keep fighting, be it their enemies or each other. It’s the curse of such a social but intelligent species. Jack couldn’t help but wonder idly what would’ve happened to them if they never separated, if Y/N came with him when he was discharged. He wondered if that teen girl would also be his. She was a daughter to be proud of, perhaps one he could be proud of. Would their last names be Abbot or L/N? Maybe both? If they were his resident’s age, maybe they could’ve been married by now. That is of course assuming Y/N loved him. The man must be married as Jack recalled hearing the teen talk about calling her mom. Jack felt like kicking himself for even picturing getting between that. Y/N had moved on and so should he. 

A loud beeping ripped Jack from his thoughts. He recognized the voice of the resident he left beside Y/N as it began pitching up in panic. Without a moment's hesitation he rerouted towards the gurney, breath coming out in short bursts. 

“Dr Abbot! L/N’s blood pressure is dropping, I can’t get it back up!” 

He felt his stomach sink. 

“Did you get those blood tests back?”

“No, labs hasn’t said anything”

“Shit”

He looked at Y/N whose head was lulling slightly, fighting to stay conscious. The man whimpered and shook, yet even a quick touch told Abbot his temperature was rising. 

“Y/N can you hear me?”

Jack looked at the heart monitor, seeing his pulse rise into undeniable tachycardia. Sweat was pouring from the sides of Y/N’s face and his eyes became glossy and unfocused. He was unconscious.

Behind him Jack heard the rushed steps of Y/N’s daughter, her voice pitching as she begged to know what was happening. He wished he could comfort her, tell her everything was going to be okay, but he knew better. Jack felt ice shoot through his veins as he rushed his students into action, preparing to handle septic shock.

- 

Jack was about ready to strangle whoever was handling labs. Turns out they weren’t even busy; they had simply just forgotten to run Y/N’s blood samples. If only he’d known sooner, if only they did their fucking job, they wouldn’t have had to resuscitate the man infront of pre grieving daughter. Turned out there was an abscess left behind, an internal one pressing into the muscle of Y/N’s inner thigh. Jack thanked whatever god that chose not to place it inside an artery then cursed them for letting this happen to begin with. 

For a solid minute Jack thought they were going to have to call it. Y/N’s lungs had given out and the man was now intubated. The machine whirred as it pumped air through the unconscious man’s lungs. A mix of sedatives and exhaustion undoubtedly kept Y/N asleep while the ICU ushered in to bring him upstairs. 

Jack watched them wheel his first love away, fingers trembling at his sides. He felt the teen girl’s presence behind him, sitting after she was given an anxiety medication to keep her from total collapse. A part of him wanted a new patient to come in so he could run from this, not face the fear of someone’s grieving loved one. The judgement of how he could’ve handled this better, how he may as well have killed Y/N. Her gaze was suffocating.

She approached him with a tremble to her shoulders, eyes puffed and red. Together they watched as Y/N disappeared into the elevator alongside several doctors. 

“I- I didn’t know it was this bad”

He heard a strain in her throat, raw from screaming. 

“My dad he- he,” she choked on a sob before spitting, “ he can be such a stubborn dick!”

Abbot shifted his gaze to the girl whose face was pinched up tight. He heard her venom yet saw the deep love inside her eyes. He knew that feeling, Y/N had brought it out of him more than once during their time together. 

Side by side like this he could see all the ways she was Y/N’s daughter. From the color of her hair, to her nose, she even had his chin. But most of all she wore her expressions the exact same. Tight and tense, like a mask fitted into place. 

“Thank you… for saving him”

Jack almost wanted to disagree. Y/N was still in the danger zone, sepsis was far more deadly than most people realized. Jack didn’t feel like he saved him, just prolonged the suffering. And yet the man’s daughter looked at him so softly. 

“Of course”

He didn’t realize his own throat was hoarse until he had to fight back a cough. 

“I hate him for making me find him like that, for it being a scrape that brought him here, not the real problem. Fuck… what if he never fell, what if I didn’t hear him and instead of… instead of being here he was in bed dea-”

Her voice quivered as she broke back into tears, sniffling softly. Jack snatched some tissues off the counter next to him and handed them to her. She thanked him with a short nod. 

“I don’t mean this judgmentally… I only ask this out of concern but, how did no one notice his infection?”

The girl sniffled again at his question.

“He doesn’t live with my mom and I,” she rubbed her reddened face. "He got his own place after the divorce and I can only see him every so often. I- I should’ve come to see him sooner.”

If Y/N weren’t so sick Jack would strangle him for making this young girl feel so guilty. 

“He talks about you, yanno?”

Abbot felt his heart thump as if it were trying to crawl out of his throat. He… he never even considered that possible. 

“Jack Abbot,” she said his name as if it were a mystical creature, “he told me so many stories about you guys.”

God he hoped Y/N kept it pg.

“You guys sounded like good friends.”

“Yeah we were…”

“If he…” she shook her head, “ when he wakes up, you should talk to him. I don’t know how much free time a doctor like you has but I think it’d make him happy.” She paused for a moment. 

“I want him to be happy.”

Jack instinctively felt like saying no, not letting this bud grow and fester, not risking what would inevitably end in heartbreak, but his mouth refused to cooperate. In the ED you should never make promises you can’t keep and yet… His heart refused to deny itself. 

“That… would be nice”

They stood in silence before the distinct sound of a gurney’s wheels called for Jack’s attention. He goes to give Y/N’s daughter a goodbye before realizing he can’t remember her name. He doesn't even think he asked for it. Right as he prepared to apologize she spoke as if reading his mind.

“Jackie, my name is Jackie. I’m glad I got to meet my namesake” 

She smiled, eyes wrinkling into the same crescents as her father’s.

Jack offered out his hand which she regarded for a moment before stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug. Her face pressed tightly into his shoulder, squeezing him on the verge of being uncomfortable but he didn’t care. Instead he cradled her, rubbing her shoulders as she let out a final few sobs. They stayed like this until a voice called his name down the hall. As they split he called out to her.