#mumfic

"So you think I should leave it, then?" Marcus clarifies, as tiny, eager hands grab onto his hair and tug, hard.

"Henry, don't pull." Ted admonishes his son softly before raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "Yes, I think you should leave it."

Marcus brings his fingers to the child's hand and unclenches his surprisingly strong little fist. He gingerly pulls it away with, thankfully, only a few thick strands of black hair included.

"Come on, buddy, sit properly." Marcus encourages, manhandling the toddlers body so he's sat on his lap, facing Ted. His father is currently cutting slices of cucumber and carrot on the other side of the kitchen counter and Henry seems to find tugging on Marcus' collar interesting enough for now - what is it with small children and pulling on things? - so Marcus looks back up at Ted. "Are you sure?"

Marcus has to admit that being told to let it be wasn't the response he was hoping for. Marcus thought  his best friend would show a little more excitement when he recounted the epic tale of the night before and the discovery of the man he's ninety-nine percent sure is his soul mate.

It'd only taken an hour for a locksmith to come out, and a further thirty minutes for his front door to be in full working order again. After an uncomfortable goodbye with Ben - Marcus had opted for a hug and Ben for a handshake, which resulted in Ben's hand getting awkwardly crushed in between their chests - Marcus had hightailed it to Ted's, in dire need of his ever present voice of reason. Marcus can't count the number of times Ted has talked him and Winston out of impulsive decisions that, on reflection, they shouldn't have needed to be talked out of in the first place.

"Marcus," Ted says, stepping around the identical little boy sat cross legged on the floor smashing transformers together, and pulling plastic plates down from an overhead cupboard. "You broke into this guys flat, scared the life out of him, drank his beer and ate his food, kissed him, found out he had a boyfriend, and then continued to come on to him. And you actually want to carry on pursuing it?"

Marcus grimaces. Well doesn't that just make him sound like a massive douchebag. Marcus isn't that detached, no matter how much evidence Ted has to the contrary.  He knows how bad his situation looks when you lay everything out, but it was different at the time. He really fucking likes this guy.

When Ben was looking up at him through his sinfully long lashes, all doe-eyed and demure, Marcus couldn't imagine doing anything besides letting himself fall a little and kissing him. And it's not like he would've pressed Ben to kiss him if Ben didn't want to. Frankly, he finds those that constantly pester people to get with them annoying and a little bit sickening. If Ben hadn't have been responding to him like he was, all quickened breathing and wide eyes, then Marcus would've left it. He knows a lost cause when he sees one and this is not one of those times.

There was just something a bit off about Oliver. Marcus probably doesn't have the most objective standing here, but he can't shake the feeling that he and Ben don't work together in that effortlessly smooth way that couples can. Especially with them being together for as long as they have. It isn't right.

And when Marcus was with him, all he could think about was that them meeting felt like it was written in the stars.

Ted's looking at him, the bastard, waiting for a reply, even though it's clear there isn't one that doesn't make it sound like he wants to terminate a strangers relationship for his own selfish gain. Damn Ted and his indisputable logic. Marcus resigns himself to that fact that he can't find the words to describe it without saying it really isn't as bad as it looks! which is a sure fire way to make him think it most definitely is as bad as it looks.

"Well it sounds bad when you put it like that." Marcus mumbles sullenly into the mop of blonde curls in front of him, frowning at Henry's little feet.

"That's because it is bad." Ted states, an amused smirk on his face, as he arranges the vegetables on the table with the rest of the food. "Honestly, I don't know how you can't see how pushy you are sometimes."

"But he's pretty." Marcus pouts, fully aware that his voice has climbed to that whiny pitch that makes him sound like a spoilt child. After both his mother and Winston pointed out it happened whenever he got frustrated, he decided to embrace it and use his pouting power to it's full potential. Sure enough, Ted's expression softens slightly, even mixes with something close to pity.    

"I'm sure there are plenty of other pretty guys out there who'll sleep with you."

"Not like him there isn't."

Ted pauses in setting the table and looks to Marcus for a moment, his tongue between his teeth. "Are you seriously going to break them up just so you can shag him?"

"No, no, it's more than that. He-", Marcus sighs. This is proving more difficult than he thought it would be. How can he articulate something he can't even put into thoughts in his own head? He knows the sudden want he feels for Ben isn't solely about sex, but he admits he'd be more than happy to fuck him and then take it from there. The difference, for what Marcus thinks is the first time in his life, is that he would look forward to the taking it from there part just as much as the fucking part. Just from that one night he knows there's something between them, something worth exploring. He knows he'll regret it if he doesn't. "It's hard to put into words, okay? It's more than just physical. Like... I don't know, I just wanna hang out with him, sit and listen to him talk or... whatever." Marcus tries to explain. "And I don't want to break them up, thank you very much, I just... don't exactly want them to be together either."

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Ted reinforces stubbornly, making sure the rose tinted glasses are fully yanked off Marcus' face.

Marcus run a hand through his hair. "You don't get it, Ted, you didn't see him."

"I don't think I have to, mate, the facts speak for themselves. He's with someone." Ted heads for the bottom of the stairs, none the wiser of the scowl aimed at his back, then yells, "Heather, lunch is ready!"

Henry fidgets in Marcus' lap until Marcus cottons on and lowers him enough that he can scramble to the ground and sit himself at the table, his brother not far behind.

"But he's perfect," Marcus complains, defeated. And to think he was so excited about this. "And in the flat right below mine. What're the chances?"

"Next to none," Ted acknowledges as he helps his sons dish food onto their plates, "Which is why he's unavailable."

"I can't just leave it, Ted, not now that I know he's there."

"He has a boyfriend." Ted reiterates.

Marcus huffs. "You're no fun, you know that?"

"Aw, come on." Ted protests, amusement still annoyingly present in his tone. "That's not true, is it boys? I'm fun, aren't I?"

"Yeah!" Henry yells, flicking sweetcorn off the end of his plastic fork in his excitement.

"Daddy plays monsters 'nd ev'ything!" Ryan assures adamantly, through a mouthful of chewed up crisps.

"See. Monsters and everything." Ted smiles, giving a definite nod. "And are you sure you want to get involved with him? I mean, he cheated on his boyfriend. I'm pretty sure that takes him out of the running to be the angel you think he is."

Marcus' stomach twists uneasily. He hadn't thought of that. Hateful as he is, Oliver does love Ben, that much is clear, and would be heartbroken if he ever found out.  

"Just remember that, okay?" Ted asks before turning to the stairs again. "Heather, come on! Before the munchkins eat it all!"

Approaching footsteps sound from the hallway and Marcus only just has time to brace himself before three feet of  happiness barrels into him, nearly knocking him over.

"Marcus!" Heather smiles toothily up at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his middle as he sways precariously backwards.

"Hey, princess!" Marcus greets, hoisting her up onto his hip. He has to heft her up again so she won't slide down his leg, and takes a moment to debate if she's got heavier or if he needs to work out more. He indicates to the messily folded piece of paper in her hand. "What's this, then?"

"It's my cake." She says proudly, unfolding it and holding it up in front of them.

"A cake? Why would you need a cake?"

Heather whacks his shoulder playfully, smiling through her gapped teeth. "You know why!"

"Hmm," Marcus wrinkles his brow and scrunches up his nose, feigning thought. "No, no, I don't think I do. What could you need a cake for? It's not like there's a special day coming up or anything."

"Marcus!" She squirms against his side, laughing. "Stop! You do remember!"

"Nope. I don't remember anything that would need a cake. Do you, Ted?"

Ted looks up from wiping snot from Ryan's nose, puzzled. "No, don't think I do."

"Dad! Stop it!" An edge of frustration comes in to her voice. "It's my birthday next week!"

"Oh! Right!" Marcus relents as Ted makes similar noises of realisation. "That's the big event! Remind me how old you're going to be again?"

"Seven!"

"Right, right. Well, it's a wonderful cake." He places her on the floor. "Go on, go eat."

Marcus watches as the kids chow down on their lunch, absently smiling at the love and contentment that he always feels when he's around Ted's family. The shit radiates off them. Lucky sods.

It's not long, Heather is only on the fourth round of describing the dress she's going to wear on her birthday, until Marcus' thoughts wind back around to Ben.

He's definitely less giddy about the whole ordeal than when he first arrived. Part of him wants to be mad at Ted for ruining his excitement, to shake him and say "Why can't you just be happy for me?!", but the rest of him knows he's only telling the truth. Ben has a boyfriend. It's as simple as that. He's not even playing the game, let alone up for grabs.

The problem, though, is that Marcus is finding it increasingly harder to ignore the squirming of his insides whenever he thinks about Ben. That it was difficult to tamper down in the first place probably isn't helping. Or that he thinks about Ben a lot.  

Dammit, Marcus can't just let this slide. There's something good and real and potentially amazing on the table here. Ben felt it too, that's why they kissed, Marcus knows it.

One last shot. Marcus will give Ted one last chance to show him a glimmer of a real reason to pursue this. That's all he needs, just the edge of a valid justification and he will take it and run.  

"You really think I should leave it?"

Ted sighs and digs the palms of his hands into his eyes.

"I mean, this guy could be the one and you want me to forget about him?"

"He's not the one. You spent one night with him. In different rooms, I might add."

Marcus grunts and folds his arms across his chest. "You're no help-"

"Just because I'm not telling you what you want to hear-"

"I should've gone to Winston."

"Why didn't you?" Ted squints at him, "It's not like he has a family to look after while his wife is away or anything."

Marcus slumps in his seat. "Because he's set me up on another date tomorrow, hasn't he? And if I talk to him about Ben he'll get all offended. You know what he's like."

"I don't know why you don't just tell him to stop, you know."

Marcus shrugs. "Makes him happy. And more often than not I get a decent blowjob out of it, at least."

Ted rolls his eyes and fights a losing battle with a grin. "That figures."

"I was thinking about bailing on this one, actually. Saying I'm ill or something."

"Because of your neighbour?" Ted asks, annoyance rising in his voice. "Are you kidding me? Marcus, you have no chance with him."

"You didn't see what he was like with me-"

"Did he, or did he not, explicitly ask you to leave it?"

Marcus sighs. Damn Ted all the way to hell for always making so much goddamn sense. "Well-"

"Answer the question."

"Yes, he did, but-"

"No. No buts. Go on this date, get your blowjob, and move on to the next one. Let the guy live his life in peace. I'm sure the last thing he needs is you, a stranger, bursting in to it and spouting all this crap about soul mates and perfection and the bloody one."

"Dad?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"What's a blowjob?"

-*-

Marcus decides it would be rude to not at least thank Ben for letting him stay the night. And Oliver, of course, as well. His mother brought him up with proper manners after all, even if he does only remember them after breaking and entering.  Ah well, better late than never.

He decides to splash out on a fancy bottle of wine, which proves harder than he thought it would due to his somewhat limited wine-drinking knowledge. He's never strayed further than Tesco's own label, which he ordinarily buys with the goal of downing fast and getting shit faced, so it's not like he knows which ones actually taste nice. Beer and even liquor are more his forte. He must have looked well and truly befuddled whilst staring at the bottles in the supermarket aisle, as a nice young lady in a crisp white shirt and a shiny name tag comes over to offer her assistance. They decide on a bottle of Pinot Grigio that she promises him is "delicate yet sharp without being tart" to which Marcus nods and pretends he understands.  

After scaling two flights of stairs (the bloody lift is still broken) Marcus presses the doorbell of flat 2b and poses with the bottle of wine held beside his face, plastering on a cheesy grin, ready to be the picture of innocence and gratitude when Ben opens the door. There's no way he could turn that away. Not that Marcus thinks he would, what with them being friends and all, but he's just making sure.

Ben raises an eyebrow and leans against the door frame, unconcerned. "So you do know how to use a doorbell, then."  

Marcus sighs, drops his facade and the bottle of wine down to his side - goddamn this angelic bastard -  but a smile that seems to have a life of its own breaks out across his face, regardless. God, Ben really is beautiful, and he seems to be radiating the smell of butter and sugar and spice and all things nice to boot. That, coupled with his kind eyes, inevitably turns Marcus' insides into a molten mess, which is something he really should've been able to predict.  

"Would you prefer I send a carrier pigeon through the window to announce my arrival?" Marcus asks solemnly. "Or a marching band? Because that can be arranged. I know people."

Ben grins. "No, no. I just thought picking locks was more your style."

"You're never going to let me live that one down are you?"

"No way in hell." Ben chuckles. He leans his head back against the door frame, exposing the skin of his neck that is far too unblemished for Marcus' liking. Ben's eyes narrow. "And how would you get a marching band through my window, anyway? That sounds like a logistical nightmare. All those trumpets and french horns."

Marcus ignores, quite gallantly in his opinion, all the horn based innuendos that instantly pop into his head. "Well if you'd have let me finish attempting to get to my flat through it then I'd know, wouldn't I?"

"Nice." Ben nods, that adorable look of disbelief on his face again. "I like how you turned that one around on me."

Marcus shrugs indifferently. "I tell the truth."

"You can do no wrong, can you?"

"I'm practically Jesus."

"Right." Ben laughs. He straightens, and Marcus doesn't know if he imagines Ben's stupid eyes dart down to his lips - just for a millisecond - as he shifts his weight, or if Marcus' fucking feelings for this guy are making him see things that aren't there. Either way, Ben's voice is a lot softer when he speaks again and he's giving that wonderful little half smile that Marcus can't get out of his head. "Plain old doorbell it is."  

"Hmm," Marcus agrees, equally as gently. The warmth in his stomach bubbles mildly. "How boring."

They pause, simply looking at one another, content smiles on their faces. They seem to take each other in, acknowledge and appreciate the existence of the other, in the comfortable silence that lingers for a few moments. Marcus can feel his heart trying to tunnel its way out of his increasingly flushed chest.

Suddenly, he can't remember any of the conversation he had with Ted. He knows he made a decision to do something (whilst scrubbing quickly congealing rings of jam from Ted's kitchen table), but that thought has helpfully decided to be elusive right now. He definitely resolved to do something with this whole I fancy the pants off a taken guy debacle. Ultimately, Ted wasn't happy with him, that he can remember, so changes must be made. Or maybe he concluded to not do anything at all, now he thinks about it. All Marcus knows for certain is that the heat in his middle is creating smoke in his brain and if he's being honest with himself, all that really matters is the here and the now, in this doorway with Ben and his horribly unmarred skin.

Fuck what Ted thought. It probably wasn't important anyway. What could be more important than being right here, on this day, at this very moment?

Ben clears his throat and gives a minute shake of his head. Marcus wouldn't have picked up on it if his senses weren't so primed on him.

"So did you want something? Or are you delivering bottles of wine to everyone on the second floor?" Ben smiles easily. "Let me guess - It used to be water."

"Ah, no." Marcus smiles at the wine in his hand. If he looks at Ben smirking at his own joke for any longer he may just discover his inner vampire and lunge for his throat. "I'm not that good, I'm afraid. Marching bands through windows I can do, but water into wine? Haven't practised that one so much."

"Shame. Let me know when you perfect it."

Marcus holds the bottle out between them. "I got this for you."

Ben looks at it through narrowed eyes.

"You got me wine?" He asks slowly, apprehensively.

It takes a few seconds of them both staring incomprehensibly at the other, a vastly different kind of  stare than before, until the penny drops.

Ben thinks Marcus is making a move on him.

And, yes, okay, Marcus admits that, with how he was behaving before, it's not too ostentatious an assumption. And even if Ben did ask him to leave it just that morning, Marcus supposes it still wouldn't be so out of character for him to just press a little bit further, test the waters a tiny bit longer.

Despite all that, the way Ben is so suddenly on guard at the mere thought hurts. He's not so bad, is he? Taken or not, is it really that horrible to have him flirting?

With half of him feeling sorry for himself, and the other half worrying when he became so conscious of his flirting skills and other people's fucking opinions of them, Marcus can't help the small, self-deprecating laugh that slips between his lips. "Don't worry, sunshine.  It's for you and  your guy. To say thanks for letting me stay last night. And for not hitting me with your frying pan and calling the police."

The tension in Ben's shoulders visibly lessens as he smiles, which is as good as throwing a bucket of ice water onto Marcus' melted insides, solidifying them into heavy lead and bringing him back to reality.

"You know. Like friends do." Marcus can't help but add, biting back the urge to yell you kissed me back, dickhead!

"Yeah. Right. Friends." Ben replies, a little too brightly, and wraps his fingers around the neck of the bottle. "Thanks. That's great."

Marcus shrugs stiffly. "Least I can do."

Ben nods and looks to the label of the bottle, running his thumb over it and reading. The angle of his stooped head now means that Marcus can appreciate his small, straight nose and it's dusting of pale freckles in all their glory. He might as well be biting his lip and sighing like an infatuated teenager for how obvious his pining must be. Marcus also now notices how the ends of Ben's eyelashes, just where they attach themselves to his eyelids, are a gleaming golden blonde colour. Fuck, this guy must be  the son of a fucking God. And to think he'd been just one floor down for so long. All the times Ben could've been sat studying a recipe book with a cup of tea, or sweeping up crumbs from the kitchen floor - fresh from the batch of scones he just made, of course - or tutting at the loud music coming from one of Marcus' parties above him, and Marcus was completely non the wiser. It was a cruel trick of fate that decided they wouldn't cross paths before now.    

Fuck what Ted thought, fuck it all to hell. There's something here and Marcus'll be damned if he lets this slip through his fingers.

When an ambulance siren sounds outside and bounces off the plastered walls of the hallway, Marcus notices the silence they're in. The dead silence. The kind that you daren't so much as breathe in; the awkward type.

Oh, God. He's stood alone with Ben, and it's awkward.

They've been quiet for too long and Marcus is pretty sure he still has that dopey little fucking smile on his face that always seems to be there when he's in Ben's company. He shoves his hands in his pockets to stop them from fidgeting and drawing attention to himself.

Ben glances up, gives a little smile (which is just so Ben) and goes back to reading the label. This only makes Marcus more worried because there's no way that there's enough information on it to take this long to get through, which means Ben's re-reading it so that he doesn't have to actually say anything, meaning that they've run out of things to talk about and, Oh God, Ben thought he was making a move on him.

Marcus should've just left it. He should've taken last night for the one off that it was and gone on to plainly coexist with this wonderful man. He should've forgotten about repaying him, accepted it as a simple act of kindness from one neighbour to another, and sealed the most perfect kiss he's ever had between planes of glass to be kept in his memory for a rainy day or a lonely night.

Ben finally looks up and takes a deep breath, his eyes jumping back and forth between Marcus' as he looks to gear himself up to say something. His fingers have turned white where they're clutching onto the bottle and Marcus can feel his heart pounding in his ribcage.

Suddenly, Ben exhales and shakes his head at Marcus through a sheepish smile, blurting out "I'm sorry."

Marcus' eyebrows jump up. What?

"For what?"

Ben motions vaguely with the bottle. "I assumed you were... uh..."

"Flirting," Marcus fills in with an embarrassed chuckle of his own. Might as well get it out there. "No, I know, it's alright-"

"No, I shouldn't have thought-"

"It's fine, I get it-"

"It wasn't fair of me to-... I just assumed-"

"Ben, it's fine-"

"After this morning and everything-"

"Yeah, I know, don't worry about it-"

"I shouldn't have done that, really-"

"It's understandable-"

"Just with everything that's happened..."

"Yeah, I know-"

"And, I mean, I did ask you to leave it, so..."

"Yeah."

"I was just a bit unsure what you were doing there for a second, that's all."

"It's okay."

"Not that I think you would... uh, after I asked you not to-"

"I-"

"I know you'd never do that." Ben says confidently, almost sharply, stopping them rambling over one another.

He's looking up at Marcus like he really believes it, trusts that Marcus wouldn't go against his words. But his eyes are begging him, pleading with him to accept this, saying I'm sorry and please just leave this and I don't want to fall out here. He needs it to be true that Marcus won't push. And Marcus wants to. He really does want to leave it and be friends with this guy because surely it would be better to have him as a friend than not at all. Not to mention it's the right fucking thing to do.

However, there's still that stubborn little malicious section of his brain that won't allow himself to give Ben up. It's sitting on his shoulder and whispering in his ear, convincing him that he needs this, that things won't be okay if you let him be the one that got away and why are cutting you're own arm off, arsehole? That's bad for us.  

"Well," Marcus says lightly, almost under his breath like there's any chance he'll get away with it. "Never say never."

Ben's easy going look goes unmistakably strained, and his left cheek sucks in from where he must be biting it on the inside.

"In this case?" He says harshly, setting his shoulders and looking Marcus dead in the eye. "Never."

Ouch.

"You can think about it if you want." He mutters, sarcastic but hurt all the same.

"Marcus," Ben sighs, "I'm not going to have this conversation with you again, okay?"

Marcus looks to him and if he thought Ben's eyes were pleading before, they're nothing compared to how they look now, and Marcus is suddenly torn.

On the one hand, Ben looks so worried. No matter how much he's tried to cover it up with putting his foot down, the discomfort in his expression is obvious. Marcus feels something drop in his stomach at the sight of it. Part of Marcus' brain is saying stop, you've upset him, you wanker! Just leave it so he can smile again! It's making him want to do anything to get that distressed look off Ben's face, including turning on his heel, taking off down the hallway and never seeing him again.

Alternatively, that very same pleading look is telling Marcus that Ben knows there's something here to fight for. That he's trying to get Marcus to agree with what he says because he's trying to convince himself of it, too. If Marcus says he'll leave it, that they shouldn't be doing this, then Ben has no choice but to believe it. He also gets conformation that his relationship with Oliver is obviously a wonderful one. Why would Marcus want to come between them if it were? Consequently, he then has no reason to take the plunge and leave Oliver.

Then again, there's always the possibility that Marcus has interpreted everything completely wrong and Ben just wants him gone.

Bloody hell.

And so Marcus is torn, and simply stands there with his mouth hung open as Ben stares him down, all defiance and I'm not going to have this conversation with you again.    

When it becomes apparent that Marcus' powers of speech have abandoned him, Ben glances down the hall and exhales softly.

"Well," he says, turning back to Marcus, his demeanour back to bone-meltingly friendly as he holds up the wine bottle. Marcus wonders if Ben has ever read Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. "I should get this in the fridge."

"Right, yeah." Marcus manages to squeeze out.

"You could come in for a bit. If you want. I mean, Oliver's due home soon, but..."

Despite possibly having whiplash from the change in tone, Marcus feels his chest lift a little.

He should say no. Ben's just being polite, that's all. This is for him to refuse and be courteous, to respect Ben's wishes so they can both come out of it looking like decent people. But Ben's smiling again. And Marcus still has that unsatisfied feeling of having unfinished business clinging to him like poisoned ivy grows on a building.

"Sure."

If this wasn't the reply that Ben wanted, he doesn't show it. He just stands aside for Marcus to come through.

Ben's home is just as welcoming as before, perhaps more so with what look like recipe books and hand written notes spread out on the coffee table, and re-runs of That 70's Show playing on the small tv in the corner.

Marcus somehow feels out of place, big and bulky in amongst the warm flat. He feels like an intruder, and isn't that just fucking ironic. When breaking in, he felt very little remorse, but, now, when he's been invited in, saying he's uncomfortable doesn't do it justice. He's still caught in that quandary of knowing he shouldn't be here but wanting to stay with all his might, and his feet can't seem to stay still because of it.

As Ben makes his way to the fridge, Marcus watches and tries to work out what the fuck is happening. He needs to do something to get this twitchy feeling out of his bones. Where do they stand now? If he had actually wanted Marcus to leave he wouldn't have let him come in, surely, even out of politeness. He would've kicked him out on his arse. Is Ben actually giving the mixed messages Marcus thinks he is? Or is this all in his head?

It's then that Marcus realises he fucking hates subtext.

He might as well try and sort this out now. The tension and instability of it all will only torment him until he does. Patience has never even come close to being his middle name. And he knows Ben isn't as sure about this as he keeps saying.

He fucking hopes to God he's right.

"I'm confused." Marcus says.

Ben takes his hand off the handle on the fridge door and turns to him. His eyebrows have gone up his forehead and he looks intrigued, but that doesn't cover the underlying resistance that tells Marcus he knows what's going on here.

Deep breath.

"I'm confused because I don't know how you can just let this lie. There is something between us, Ben. Something... noticeable. That's the only way to put it. I don't know what it is, or how this might work out, or even if it's fucking worth it, but it's something. Something that could work. I'm sorry to do this again, I am, but... I can't just let that go."

Ben sighs and puts the bottle of wine down on the counter next to the fridge with a heavy thunk. Marcus carries on before Ben has a chance to cut in with arguments he's already heard.  

"I know that it's ludicrous, okay? I know that. But it's not everyday that I break into flats, you know." That gets a smile out of Ben, "But I did last night. And of all the people in London, it happened to be yours. On the night your boyfriend was still out. And you decided to let me stay." Marcus starts to take small steps closer to him, like someone trying to get close to a wild animal. "Who does that? Who lets a stranger that picks the lock on their front door kip on their sofa? That's crazy. But you did. You didn't even think of turning me away, did you?" When Ben only gives a small smile and rubs tense fingers over his forehead, Marcus prompts. "Did you?"

Ben leans back against the counter. Marcus hopes that was the fight draining out of him. "No, I didn't. You're my neighbour-"

"You didn't know that." Marcus continues. "I had no way to prove it. I could've been anyone. I could've pissed off with your most prized possessions in the middle of the night."

"Marcus, that's-"

"Don't stand there and tell me you can't feel it, that you didn't let me stay last night because there was something about me that you couldn't refuse." As he comes to stand in front of Ben, Marcus' stomach is in knots. This feels like the ballsiest thing he's ever done. "I don't wanna say it's fate, but..."

Ben's nerve breaks and his gaze slides to the floor. Marcus thinks that may be a good thing, that he doesn't want Marcus to see what he's thinking. He seems less tense than he was out in the hallway. Marcus hopes that's because of his words and not just because of the comfort of being inside his own home.

In a bold move, and because Marcus has always been an all or nothing kind of guy, he braces his left hand on the surface next to Ben's hip and gently takes Ben's chin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Now Marcus never thought he would be soppy enough to say things like "I saw galaxies in his eyes", but when Ben lets him tilt his chin so they're looking at each other, his breath is taken from him.

"Even right now." Marcus says softly, leaving only a small gap between their bodies. "Don't pretend you don't feel... something... between us, right now."

Ben's fingers are gripping tightly onto the side of the counter and his chest is rising and falling quickly but his eyes, oh god, his eyes are almost glowing, mirroring everything that Marcus is feeling. This is why Marcus can't let go. This look says I want you too. And even if he does look a little worried, the deer caught in headlights again, all that makes Marcus want to do is kiss all the concern away.

Fuck, Marcus wants him.

"I don't think I've ever clicked with someone like this." Marcus says as he softly runs his thumb along the edge of Ben's bottom lip and feels him give a little sigh against it. "We just... fit. Please don't fight it."

Gingerly, Marcus moves his hand from the edge of the counter and places it on Ben's hip. It fits just as perfectly as before. For all the trepidation in Ben's eyes, he doesn't push him away. He doesn't exactly move in to Marcus either, but he doesn't push him away, which has to count for something.

"Marcus, I...", Ben starts, but his words quickly die in his throat. After a tense moment, he gives a little breathless laugh instead. "God, I hate you."

Marcus smiles back and takes the tiniest of steps closer. "Yeah, I kind of hate me too, right now. But you know I'm right."

Gingerly, Ben's hand comes to rest on the forearm Marcus has against his hip. Marcus' heart does something close to a somersault.

Marcus dips his head, brushing his nose against Ben's cheek and letting their mouths hover in front of one another. It feels like there's a magnetic pull bringing them ever so slowly closer and closer together. Marcus much prefers this version of Ben, the soft, willing version that makes them feel like two pieces of a puzzle finally fitting together. Not to mention that being this close to him but not actually kissing is, strangely, erotic as fuck.

Ben's eyes have fallen shut. Marcus can just see the ends of his eyelashes resting on his cheeks as he places their foreheads together. God, Marcus feels like he's burning up. Ben's grip tightens on his arm as he tilts his face up ever so slightly. Their lips must only be a millimetre apart now, and Marcus is sure Ben's pulse is thudding as fast as his own. He can almost taste it.

Three sudden, loud pounds on the door makes Ben's head snap up.

"Babe, it's me! I forgot my keys!"

Marcus' blood runs cold and he glares over his shoulder at the door. Bloody fucking Oliver! Marcus had him! Just a couple more blissful seconds and they would have been lip locked!

Ben quickly pushes past him, out of Marcus' embrace, and takes a deep breath, running his hands through his hair and pulling on it. For the second time in two days, Marcus is left to rearrange himself as adrenaline rushes through him.

"Look," Ben says quickly and quietly, whipping around to face him, and with more venom than Marcus ever thought he was capable of, "I've already admitted that I feel something for you, okay, so I'm not going to do it again. But Marcus, and I need you to listen to me now, okay? I mean really listen. Whatever stupid little crushes we have somehow developed on one another, within less than twenty-four hours of knowing each other, don't even come into the question. Words can't describe how obsolete it is. It means nothing. Because I know that in the bigger picture I am meant to be with him," He points one sure finger at the door, "alright? I'm with him and I'm staying with him because he's my soul mate, and, yes, you're handsome and you're funny and you're interesting, but I love Oliver and I'm with Oliver and you can never be Oliver. Got it?"  

Marcus opens his mouth to protest but it feels like someone has their hands clasped tightly around his throat.

Oliver knocks on the door again. "Ben? You there?"

Ben takes one, deep, composing breath as Marcus blinks gormlessly at him. The world stands still. Marcus is pretty sure even the clock has stopped ticking by, holding its breath.  

Marcus wishes his brain hadn't seemed to have short-circuited, simply showing him the same error message over and over, so he could grab Ben by the shoulders and eloquently persuade him to pretend he's not in the flat so Oliver will go and find a cafe or something to occupy himself with. They still have more talking to do, this isn't how this is supposed to end. What he wouldn't give to click his fingers and transport Oliver far, far, far away. But Marcus' shell shocked body can conjure no words, and Ben's opening the front door before Marcus even has the chance to will the colour back into his face.

"If I had a penny for every time you forgot your keys, I'd be a very rich man." Ben smiles easily.

"Well hello to you to."

Marcus drags in a deep breath to try and will some feeling back into his body. He can only hope he doesn't look as dumbfounded as he feels as Oliver walks in and spots him.

"Back again?"

"Marcus was actually just about to leave." Ben supplies, "He brought a bottle of wine for us."

"Oh, that was nice of you." Oliver smiles at him.

Marcus feels a pressure build in his chest, getting the urge to snatch the bottle off the counter next to him and run out the door lest he does anything to give this suited oaf of a man something to be happy about.

"You were kind enough to help me out so..." He rushes, "Just something to say thanks."

His head is throbbing and he shoves his hands in his pockets so Oliver won't see how they're shaking. His throat is still absurdly tight and his chest feels like its cracking, caving in to him.

'I'm with Oliver and you can never be Oliver.'

Act normal, he thinks, just act normal.

"I'm more into beer myself but you seem like wine sort of people, so I hope it's okay."

"I'm sure it will be." Ben says, short and with an air of finality, though the smile on his face stays strongly where it is.

Marcus finds his eyes and sees the hard edge in them, the solid set to his jaw. He thinks that may have been his cue to go.

"Ben's a beer person, too." Oliver says.

"Oh, really?" Marcus smirks, although this bit of trivia seems bittersweet after all the words Ben just snarled at him. "Great minds think alike, ey?"

The suggestive tone goes (thankfully) over Oliver's oblivious head, but Ben's smile disappears instantly.  

Marcus decides that, yes, now is the time to take his leave before he steps over the line, if he miraculously hasn't already. Although of course there is a part of Marcus that wants one of them to slip up and for Oliver to cotton on to the sexual tension between his boyfriend and another man, he also doubts that Ben would appreciate that. He thinks he's probably so far into Ben's bad side at the moment that one more inch would lead him to fall over the edge and down into the abyss of never-to-be-spoken-to-again territory. That's the last thing he wants.

He says his goodbyes and, with one final, desperate pleading look to Ben, who looks steadily back at him, he steps out of the flat and into the corridor. The door is shut behind him with more force than he thinks is necessary.

"It's nice to meet you, Marcus." Oliver smiles down at him and it takes Marcus a couple of moments of staring at his outstretched hand for him to realise he's supposed to shake it.

"Right, yeah." Marcus stammers, standing and clasping the man's hand. He feels like he's been hit across the head with a shovel; talk about a knock to his ego. "You too."

He shoots a look over to Ben, who has taken sudden interest in the floorboards between his feet.

"Rough day, huh?"

Marcus turns his head back to Oliver and his eyes eventually follow.

"Sorry?"

"Rough day? With your key?"

"Yeah," Marcus gives a nervous laugh, "I've had better, that's for sure."

"Yeah, I bet." Oliver gives a winning smile, shrugs out of his suit jacket and puts it over the back of a chair next to the kitchen counter island. "Well, we can offer you a sofa and a blanket for the night anyway. Ben cooks amazing food. Get a good breakfast in you tomorrow morning and everything'll feel better as soon as you know it."

"Yeah, thanks, I really appreciate it."

"Hey, what are neighbours for?"

Cheating on your boyfriend with, apparently, Marcus' brain supplies bitterly. Oliver doesn't see the smile slip from his face as he turns and steps up to Ben, who's awkwardly hovering. Oliver pulls him in by his waist and plants a solid kiss on his lips.

"Mmm. Hi.", Oliver purrs and the corners of Ben's mouth turn up in a familiar smile. It occurs to Marcus that he'd wrongly come to claim that smile as his, having seen it at its full heart-melting potential so many times since Ben gallantly decided to put the frying pan down.

Marcus sits back on the sofa, his elbows rested on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. He vaguely registers Oliver asking if there's any leftover food and shoving something in the microwave whilst telling his boyfriend about his day, but the rushing of blood in his ears is remarkably loud.

"I'll see if I can find you a proper quilt, Marcus." Oliver says, then disappears into the bedroom, the door shutting with a solid click.

They're both silent, the awkwardness of it making Marcus' skin crawl as Ben scuffs his toe against the wood of the floor. Marcus clenches and unclenches his hands so many times he thinks he's probably given himself arthritis.

He's never known tension like this. It's suffocating.

After the microwave pings and they both jump, Marcus decides to go along with the theme of the day and just jump in at the deep end.

"So," He starts, and his voice sounds shockingly loud in the small space, like a gunshot. Ben looks up guiltily. "You have a boyfriend."

Ben fires a look towards the bedroom but seems to decide it's safe and comes to stand before Marcus.

"I'm sorry," Ben rushes, "I shouldn't have... Look, this is horrible and I'm a twat but I shouldn't have..." He drops his voice, "...kissed you like that. Or at all. You're a really nice guy and you've had a shit day and-"

"How long have you been with him?"

"Erm... about a year and a half." Ben gives an odd, humourless laugh and scratches the back of his neck. "It's pretty serious, actually. He's been talking about getting married ever since it was made legal."

Marcus stays quiet. He can't keep his hands still. They're twitching, wanting to reach out and grab Ben by his stupidly prominent hips, to bring him down and kiss him until a fucking year and a half is erased from his very being.

"Look, it was just a kiss, right? It didn't mean anything. We don't even know each other."

"No, of course not."

Marcus shoves his hands underneath his thighs.

Ben lets out a harsh sigh. "Marcus-"

Oliver comes back into the room, a patchwork blanket bundled into his arms.

"Found the bugger," Oliver declares, dropping it beside Marcus, who stands, his restless twitching apparently extending to his legs. "Now take good care of this, Marcus, my grandma made it with twently five bundles of wool and love."

Marcus forces a laugh, "Thanks."

Oliver rescues his dinner from the microwave. "I'm going to turn in after I've eaten this. If you need anything just let us know, yeah?"

Marcus gives a nod.

"You coming?", Oliver asks Ben.

"Uh, yeah, I'll be in in a second."

"Alright." Oliver plants a kiss on Ben's cheek before leaving for the bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

Silence covers them again and, for the first time in his life, Marcus doesn't know what to do, what to say to make the air breathable again. Ben shuffles, putting sizeable distance between them, over to the kitchen counter island. He leans his back against it so his hips jut out even more.

His stupid fucking hips that Marcus wants to run his tongue over.

Their gazes meet, Ben's shyer than he has been all evening, but there's something there, an uncertain shine that's apprehensive and intrigued all at once. It makes Marcus able to stop and collect the part of himself that was rattled by Oliver's untimely entrance. Ben's curious, Marcus is sure of it; his eyes give him away. Ben doesn't want to let this lie but he's too good, too moral, to look any further.

Marcus guesses he'll be the one who has to do it, then.

Slowly, Marcus makes his way over to where Ben is stood. Ben straightens but he doesn't brake their eye contact as Marcus gently frowns at him. Ben wants this, Marcus knows he does.

He doesn't flinch when Marcus raises his hands and gently places them on Ben's hips, fingers curling around the bone and warm flesh of his side. Only when Marcus has tilted his head and has moved close enough that his breath is ghosting against his lips does he show any reaction.

His lips part a fraction.

Marcus' stomach gives an anxious flutter that Ben might bottle it. He sends a prayer to anyone who will listen to please let this play out. If he can just get his mouth on him again, he knows Ben won't be able to ignore this... thing that's between them. Ben looks as if he'll say something, but, apart from a slight clicking noise in his throat, he stays blissfully mute.

Marcus can almost feel the battle of wills happening in the body he's trapped between his own and the marble worktop.

Slowly, very slowly, Ben's hands come up and grip on to the t-shirt over Marcus' stomach. Ben's breathing too fast, Marcus can feel the little puffs of it against his chin, and his face is clearly saying my fucking boyfriend is in the next room, you idiot but when Marcus closes the space and delivers a single, long, slow, burning kiss onto his lips, he does nothing to stop it. Marcus' lips close around Ben's bottom one and, as he pulls on it gently, Ben's whole body goes slack. His hands tighten into fists, the soft fabric of Marcus' t-shirt peeking out from between his fingers.

As Ben cocks his head and opens his mouth under the sublime ministrations, Marcus pulls away.

Marcus takes a few steps back, leaving Ben's hands suspended in front of him, a cocky little smirk on his face.

"You should go to bed with your boyfriend." Marcus comments offhandedly, sitting back on the sofa and unlacing his boots.

"Yeah," Ben says. Marcus tampers down his celebratory smile at how dazed he sounds.

Marcus raises an eyebrow when all Ben does is put a hand on the surface behind to steady himself.

Ben blinks. "Yeah," He says, with more conviction this time. "Yes, I should. With... with my boyfriend. Goodnight."

"Night," Marcus replies cheerfully as Ben retreats to the bedroom looking like a deer caught in headlights.

-*-

Marcus is a little too tall for the sofa and his feet hang off the arm rest, the wool of the blanket is scratchy and smells like the inside of an old, dusty wardrobe and, once the heating clicks off, it's actually quite cold in the living room. He goes to sleep with a small smile on his face regardless.

-*-

Marcus wakes to the sound of a kettle being boiled and the rustle of a cereal packet.

He reluctantly cracks an eyelid open to see Oliver, hair slicked down and suited up already, shovelling great spoonfuls of Cheerios into his mouth with one hand and scrolling on his phone with the other.

Marcus groans softly and shuffles onto his side in an attempt to get some feeling into the leg and arm he must have been laying on all night.

Oliver's crunching stops.

"Marcus?", Oliver whispers into the dimness of the early morning, "You awake?"

"Yeah," Marcus croaks, rubbing a heavy hand over his face.

"Oh. Sorry, buddy, didn't mean to wake you."

"S'all right," Marcus replies after clearing his groggy throat, "Had to happen sometime. What time is it?"

"Around six. Coffee?"

"Bloody hell," Marcus mutters.

Oliver chuckles. "Not used to early mornings?"

"No," Marcus sits ups and rubs his pamls into his eyes, "Definitely not. Yes to coffee, though, thanks."

Marcus reluctantly pulls himself from the warmth of his quilt and staggers over to the counter. He inhales the steam above his mug as it's shoved in front of him like it's the elixir of life.

The clattering of Oliver's bowl being lobbed into the sink shocks him awake, confirming to his nerve endings that no one should be awake and functional when it's still dark outside, for fucks sake.

"Right," Oliver announces, grabbing his suit jacket seemingly out of thin air and putting it on, "I'm off. Ben should be up soon. He'll know where to find a number for a locksmith, I'm sure. Not really my area of expertise, that domestic stuff."

Marcus' sleep addled brain vaguely registers that there's something off about this (fixing a broken lock is domestic?) but it can't quite process it yet. He's sure he'll have a problem with it later. Besides, there a far more important question to be asked.

"Blimey, where do you have to be this early? In a suit?"

Oliver laughs. "I'm a financial advisor. A lot of people want to know what to do with their money so I usually try to get a head start on the day."

That fits, Marcus thinks.

"What is it you do?"

"I'm a musician." Marcus states into his cup.

Oliver scoffs into his orange juice and wipes his mouth on a piece of kitchen roll whilst smirking at Marcus like they've just shared an inside joke, but his smile quickly falters. He looks at Marcus for a moment.

"You're serious?"

"Yeah," Marcus says slowly, looking towards his guitar propped up by the doorway, "I don't just carry that around because it looks good."

"No, right, of course." Oliver says through a laugh, then tends to his overly shiny briefcase.

"What?" Marcus tries not to grit his teeth.

Oliver pauses, obviously decides not to say whatever he's thinking, shakes his head and smiles. "It's nothing."

"No, go on." Marcus can feel himself getting more and more wound up. "What's so surprising about that?"

"Nothing, nothing..." Oliver insists, but then gives in to temptation under Marcus' stare. "Well it's just..."

Oliver bites his lip and for a second Marcus can see why Ben's with him. He's not blind. Watching his perfectly white bottom teeth drag across his plump upper lip is a major turn on.

"It's not a Real Job, is it?"

And with those words, any good feelings Marcus had towards Oliver (granted they weren't many) evaporate. To top it off, Oliver's giving him a look that says come on, give it up, it's just me, you can admit it and it pisses Marcus off more

than he can remember being pissed off in a very long time.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

There's only a slight flicker on Oliver's face, he knows he may have crossed a line, but it doesn't stick around for long. His mouth works for a moment before any words come out. To Marcus' horror, he dares to carry on. "Well it's just

playing a tune and singing some words, really, isn't it?"

At Marcus' defiant expression, Oliver is revealed to be the defensive type.

"Well have you done anything I would've heard?"

"Erm," It takes a moment for Marcus to recover from the show of utter ignorance. "No. I don't think so." Oliver smiles, a smile that clearly says he's won, and Marcus is jolted back online. "I mean, I haven't been signed or

anything but I've played all the pubs around here at least once."

"Ah. Pubs."

"What's wrong with pubs?" Marcus asks, his jaw clenched, thoroughly exasperated.

"Nothing. If you're into that."

"I take it you're not, then."

"Nah, we tend to stay away from that kind of thing."

"That kind of thing?" Marcus parrots, but Oliver's on a role.

"So, what do you do? You play a few nice songs, get paid in alcohol? Stagger home with whatever poor girl had the bar shift and don't get up until the next afternoon when the rest of us have already been contributing to society for a

good few hours?"

There are so many things Marcus should address from that, and it's too fucking early for this.

"I'm gay, actually." is all that dumbly makes its way out of Marcus' mouth.

"Oh," Oliver replies mildly, though he doesn't quite stop his nose from wrinkling just a little. "Welcome to the club."

"Oliver, play nice." a smooth, sleepy voice admonishes softly from the bedroom doorway.

Both dark haired men turn to face him. Ben's eyebrows narrow slightly at what Marcus can only assume is their faces softening into matching expressions of adoration.

"What're you doing up already?" Oliver asks.

"Hard to sleep with you two sniping at each other." Ben says, his voice dry as he rubs one bleary eye with a fist. He quickly continues before the two of them can start to defend themselves and dump blame the other, and turns to Oliver. "Aren't you usually gone by now?"

Oliver glances at his watch before wrenching open the door. "Shit! I'll see you

later!"

Ben rolls his eyes as the door slams.

"What a douche!" Marcus exclaims as soon as he can, a part of him hoping Oliver isn't too far down the hallway yet and will hear him. The walls are thin, after all.

"Marcus!", Ben laughs, though he tries to hide it, dragging his feet to the kitchen.

"Well he is! Did you hear what he was saying about me?"

"He wasn't talking about you-" Ben wrinkles his nose at the dirty bowl in the sink before pouring himself a cup of coffee, "Just your... chosen profession."

Marcus waves a hand dismissively. "Practically the same thing."

Ben leans back against the counter and Marcus resumes his seat at the island,

pouting.

"So he has opinions," Ben shrugs, "So what? He's allowed to have an opinion

isn't he?"

"Doesn't stop his opinion from being the wrong one."

Ben raises an eyebrow.

"Ben," Marcus whines, "He's a financial advisor."

"Yes, I did notice."

"A financial advisor."

"So?"

"He's dull. I've never met anyone that dull in my life, and I've met a lot of people so that's saying something."

"Oh you have, have you?"

"Yes," Marcus states, "and someone like you, interesting and nice and funny as you are, should not be with someone like him."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

"So who should I be with then? Someone like you, maybe?" Ben asks, eyebrows

raised in mocking disbelief.

Marcus brings his hand to his chest. "You wound me."

"You'll live." Ben says before turning to the bread bin and flicking it open. "Toast?"

Marcus is distracted, oogling Ben's seemingly perfectly round arse through his almost threadbare pyjama bottoms, and he only vaguely registers the question. Ben looks over his shoulder at his guest and, seeing Marcus' transfixed state and

not being stupid, narrows his eyes.

Marcus smiles angelically. "Yes, please."

Ben rolls his eyes so hard that Marcus actually fears they may twist out of their sockets, but he doesn't quite manage to smother the smile tugging at the

corners of his lips as he pops slices of bread in the toaster.

"Don't pretend we wouldn't be amazing together." Marcus says softly. "I know you felt it last night just like I did."

Marcus watches Ben's shoulders slowly rise and fall as he takes a deep breath

and then turns to face him.

"Marcus," Ben pleads, "Don't do this."

"Do what?"

"Talk as if there is anything between us."

"You don't think there is?"

"How can there be? This time yesterday, we didn't even know the other existed."

"And now we do. And I'm glad."

"And you're basing this on... what? A kiss?"

"Erm, some fantastic snogging and a fucking amazing last kiss, actually. Don't

deny we would have gone further if he hadn't've waltzed in."

High spots of colour bloom on Ben's cheeks. "Please, it wasn't that heated."

"You were on my lap!"

Ben sighs and rubs at his forehead with his long fingers, cradling his mug to his chest. "It doesn't matter, does it? Even if there were something - and I'm not saying that there is - it doesn't make a difference because I am in a long term relationship, which I am happy in, and I have no intention of changing that

anytime soon."

Marcus bites the inside of his cheek at the obvious reference to their conversation last night. Instead of reiterating his view on the matter (you're not happy, you're just settling, you dick) he lets his eyes wander down Ben's lightly muscled arms, stomach and tartan covered legs.

"Stop looking at me like that, Marcus, it's not going to happen. I promise you."

Marcus scoffs. "If the guy were actually decent, I could maybe leave it, but that guy?" Marcus says, jerking his thumb towards the front door, "What do you see in him?"

"Plenty of things." Ben replies as their toast jumps up. He potters around the kitchen, finding plates and applying butter, studiously avoiding eye contact.

"You're just so different.", Marcus continues, watching. "You're so nice and he's just... eugh."

Ben laughs. "Flattering as that is-"

"You'd think you'd have something in common."

"Marcus-"

"Seriously, why are you with him?"

Ben pushes a plate of toast in front of him and looks him dead in the eye. "He gives amazing head."

Marcus' jaw goes slack and Ben smirks.

Marcus doesn't think Ben quite knows the extent of the images that has conjured up, namely Oliver and Ben in bed together and, by default, Ben without any clothes on. Marcus' brain finds it scarily easy to blur out Oliver's face and focus solely on the lines of Ben's body instead. Hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, muscles in his arms flexing, legs strained taut with tension, a heaving chest, a firm arse, a thick, flushed-

"Wow, is that all it takes?" Ben says and Marcus mentally shakes the images away for later. "One sex reference and you're completely zoned out."

"Well, that's not a fair contest, then, is it?"Marcus says, pointing a half-eaten corner of toast at him accusingly.

Ben sighs. Marcus hopes there's something affectionate in it. "No?"

"No. You didn't give me a chance to prove myself."

"Are you...", Ben freezes, a piece of toast half way to his mouth. "Are you offering to give me a blowjob?"

"If that's what you're basing it on."

Ben blushes and drops his breakfast back down to his plate. "Marcus-!"

"I'm just saying, I wouldn't object, you dirty man."

"You are infuriating. Did you know that?"

"Would you believe it, that's never been brought up to me before." Marcus grins.

Ben gives a breathless laugh, pushing his breakfast away from him, and folds his arms on the counter so he can lean forward.

"Look," he starts solemnly, his yellowy-brown eyes boring into Marcus'. "I'm not going to turn my back on one and a half years of a stable relationship. Oliver treats me well and he makes me happy. Yes, happy, you twat. I'll admit, he can be a bit arrogant sometimes, oblivious to anything that doesn't directly concern him, but so what? No one's perfect. He's good looking and he's funny and he makes me feel... wanted." He waves his hand at the room at large. "Why would I give all of this up?"

Marcus swallows, suddenly feeling in at the deep end. "But last night, you kissed me back-"

"It was just kissing. It didn't mean anything. You're practically a stranger."

"Just kissing?"

"Just kissing."

"You really think that?"

"I do."

Marcus narrows his eyes. "You didn't feel anything. It didn't mean anything to you, nothing at all. Just kissing."

"It meant nothing."

"Really?"

"Yes, really, Marcus, fuck, what-"

"So you wouldn't mind doing it again, then?"

Ben stares at him, clearly taken aback. The soft lines of his face sharpen as

his eyebrows jerk together and his mouth snaps shut.

Marcus counts eight of the clock's sharp ticks before Ben replies. "What?"

"If it didn't mean anything."

Ben's features smooth out again, but this time into something far more annoyed. Marcus supposes amused exasperation can only stretch so far.

"I'm not kissing you again." Ben states with an air of finality, clearly trying to put his foot down.

"Why not? It doesn't mean anything." Marcus argues.

Ben scrubs at his hair with a tense looking hand as he straightens. "Fucking hell-"

"You said it didn't mean anything. You said that."

"I know but-"

"If it doesn't mean anything then why does it matter if we do it again?"

Marcus leans forward, hands braced on the surface, waiting with bated breath to hear Ben work through the logic of this one, to admit he's tripped up.

Ben's jaw works as he tries in vain to find the right words. "Because it's... well, it's..."

"What?"

Ben stares at him, struggling. His mouth is open and he looks pained, one hand

making patterns in the air between them as he tries and fails to articulate.

Eventually, he gives in, frustrated in his defeated. "Okay, fuck, it meant something, alright?"

Marcus smiles and sits back in his chair. "Alright."

Ben purses his lips and heaves out one big, unhappy breath through his nose. He pushes himself off the counter and busies himself with cleaning Oliver's discarded cereal bowl, scrubbing at it perhaps a little more aggressively than he should.

Marcus feels little victory as he stares at a disgruntled Ben's back. In retrospect, pissing him off was perhaps not the best technique. Despite coming out on top of that little battle, he knows he's no way near to winning the war.

Marcus is nothing if not persistent, though.

Firstly, however, he must see to the craving that's prodding at the forefront of his brain. He got slightly sidetracked yesterday and has not had a smoke since the demoralising walk back from Phoenix studios.

"D'you mind?" Marcus asks, retrieving his cigarette carton from his pocket,

slightly crushed from where he must have slept on it, and holding it up in question.

Ben turns, eyes flashing for just a second before they soften again and he says, "No, go ahead."

Marcus sighs as the smoke fills his lungs, the rushing relief of nicotine surprising him again in its ability to never get old. As white smoke curls over his lip, he catches Ben staring. Taking another drag, he feels wondrous validation at being proved right when he assured his mum "because it looks cool" was a good enough reason to pick up the bad habit. That Ben's eyeing the way his lips wrap around the cigarette is sound proof it's attractive as fuck. Marcus tries not to smile as lecherously as he wants to. Instead, he lowers the fag and goes to ask if he would like to see something else his mouth looks good wrapped around, when he cottons on to how Ben's transfixed gaze has followed the cigarette down to the counter. Oh.

"Would you like one?" Marcus says slowly. "Maybe?"

Ben starts and rubs his hand over his face. "No, shit, sorry. I, er... I don't smoke. Not anymore."

"Ah."

Ben shrugs. "Oliver doesn't like it."

"Ah," Marcus replies with a little condescending scoff that he doesn't try to cover. "Of course he doesn't."

"He calls them cancer sticks."

"He's a barrel of laughs, that one."

Ben attempts to hide his laughter with an impromptu cough into the back of his hand.

"You know, if you were with me...", Marcus tries, but Ben's pointed look cuts him off. He sighs. "You're not going to leave him, are you?"

"No," Ben does look genuinely apologetic, at least. "Sorry."

"Stop apologising, you knob."

"Fine. As long as you know I feel bad about... it." Ben takes a breath. "But, after all this effort, I guess I'd... well, I would like it if we could be friends."

"No promises." Marcus replies gruffly, with a wry smile.

Ben gives him a small smile in return and, predictably, Marcus' insides melt. Well, at least he acknowledged there's something between them, even if it's just friendship. Plain, run of the mill, anti-climatic friendship.

Once they've finished eating, Ben plonks a battered copy of the yellow pages in front of him, patting it. "Get looking."

If Marcus is right, and he hopes to God that he is, the flat he is currently stood outside of, flat 2b, is directly below his own.

Marcus bites his lip, considering if he actually has the balls to do this. 2b or not 2b, that is the question.

There are no lights on, not even the flicker of a tv illuminating the edges of the door frame. There wasn't when he was outside looking up at the window either, so the occupant could easily be out.

Or asleep. It is rather late, after all.

Fuck it, I want my beer, Marcus thinks.

He fishes out one of the Bobby pins that he had put in his pocket for safekeeping last week when Laura thrust them into his hand before rushing on stage, and thanks the heavens that he and Winston had taken the liberty of learning how to pick locks in a drunken moment of inspiration. Marcus would have to remember to pay him the ten pounds he bet that neither of them would ever actually need to know how to pick a lock. Go figure.

He gets down to his knees in front of the door, feels the cold of the cement infiltrating through his jeans, and peers through the keyhole. Pressing his nose against the wood, all he can make out in the darkness of the room is the vague outline of a sofa arm, but he supposes he was never going to see a lot when looking through something that's not much bigger than his eyeball in the first place.

He takes a deep breath, bends the pin out of shape and inserts it into the lock. Screwing his nose up in concentration, he angles the pin the way the YouTube video had taught him and Winston how to. They'd actually got quite good at it at one point, managing to break into Ted's not-so-secret liquor stash often enough that Ted changed the usual padlock for one that will only open for his thumb print alone. Marcus huffs, takes the pin out, rubs it on the hem of his jacket to expel any troublesome pieces of dust and tries again. The tiny scrape of metal against metal seems obscenely loud in the quiet of the corridor. He fiddles with it for long enough that he begins to wonder if he's lost his knack for breaking into things, when he hears the tell tale click of success.

He tests the door knob and, sure enough, it works. The door swings open without a sound.

This flat has the same layout to his own, of course, but Marcus is somewhat disorientated by it as he kneels in the doorway waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It's the same set up, surprisingly spacious open plan combined kitchen and living room, kitchen to his left and living room to his right, and he knows the door opposite him is a bedroom and that there's a small bathroom coming off of that. Despite this, in some ways, it couldn't be more different. Where Marcus has sheet music and tinfoil take away boxes covering every surface, the kitchen counter island is so clean it seems to sparkle, even in the dark. Where Marcus has a big tv and a drum kit set up, there's a neat book shelf filled with what seem to be recipe books. His downstairs neighbour is obviously meticulously tidy, but the multiple blankets and cushion-strewn sofa add an undeniably homey feel to the place. It's nice.

Marcus shakes his head and gets to his feet, musing that there are much better times to make comparisons between his flat and the one he's just broken in to besides when he's hovering in the doorway of said broken in flat.

He steps into the room and closes the door agonisingly slowly, making damn sure it doesn't make a whisper of a sound. He still doesn't know if the flat's empty or not but he's not going to chance waking someone.

He stands for a second, hands still on the door, straining his ears, but the only sounds that register are the rhythmic ticking of a hidden clock and his own heavy breathing. Hefting his guitar a little higher onto his shoulder, Marcus pads through the living room (cursing his choice of heavy boots), and makes his way to the window and the blessed fire escape beyond it. All he has to do is wrench it open, climb up a level to his window and the beer that's calling his name will be his in no time. How hard can it be?

He pushes behind a ridiculously fluffy looking sofa and stares at the latch on the window, begging it to not be difficult and just glide open for him. Of course, the world has decided that today is not his day and it sticks stubbornly in place when he takes it between his thumb and forefinger and tries to yank it open. Marcus bites his lip, silencing the undoubtedly loud curses that want to make their way out of his mouth. He glances over his shoulder towards the bedroom, his hyper aware senses pushing to their limits. Letting out a breath he didn't realise he was holding, he decides it's safe to go on. He wiggles the latch more vigorously and, miraculously, it gives a little, letting out a pathetic squeak as it jerks open a fraction. Hope and sweet relief blossoms in Marcus' chest, dampening the notion that this was going to prove futile after all. Biting his tongue, he gets a good hold on it and wiggles to within an inch of its life.

Marcus' overtaxed hearing scarcely registers the faint fump fump fump of clothed footsteps approaching in time. He's only just ducked behind the sofa, shoving his guitar down with a traitorous reverberating clatter before the lights are flicked on and the room is bathed in light.

Marcus' heart stutters in his chest and he suddenly understands the phrase 'stock still'. He feels trapped, as if his wrists and neck are secured and he's about to be exposed for public ridicule.

"Who's there?" A male voice demands.

"Shit," Marcus says under his breath as he screws his eyes shut, his knuckles turning write as he latches onto his guitar.

This was a Bad Idea. A very, very Bad Idea. An insanely fucking Bad Idea and Marcus cannot fathom which part of his mind convinced the logical bit that it would have worked in any way, shape or form. He can see that now.

"I know someone's in here," the voice goes on, strained and afraid. "So you might as well come out."

Marcus bites his tongue, his heart thumping erratically in his chest.

"Come out now and I won't call the police." The man says, but his voice doesn't quite mask the rasp of metal being dragged across the marble of the kitchen worktop.

Marcus swallows the lump in his throat and tries, unsuccessfully, to school his breathing. He debates whether it's worth taking a peak over the sofa to see who he's dealing with. It's likely that Marcus, who's tall and muscled and currently appears fairly intimidating in a leather jacket and biker boots, will be able to overpower the guy and bolt for the door. Suddenly, running to Nick and Veronica's and listening to their enthusiastic shagging all night doesn't seem like a bad option when the alternative is a lonely prison cell.

Marcus decides to risk taking a look. He turns so he's on all fours, carefully making sure his guitar doesn't knock against anything in the small space, and peers around the edge of the sofa towards the bedroom doorway.

The man seems about his age. He's reasonably tall, perhaps only a few inches shorter than Marcus (though it's hard to tell from this strange angle), and has short, sleep tousled hair. His skin is tanned and he has a thin build, but Marcus can distinguish the tough, wiry muscle beneath the seemingly fragile exterior. His eyes are wide, almost completely dilated by adrenaline, flicking around every inch of the room in suspicion. His shoulders are tensed like a dog raises its hackles, and he's constantly shifting his weight from foot to foot, loose fitting tartan pyjama bottoms threatening to fall with every movement. He's waiting for Marcus to put one foot wrong so he can attack. Marcus also notices, stifling a groan as he does, that the fingers of one hand are flexing and gripping around the handle of a very heavy looking frying pan.

The man's gaze falls to the sofa and Marcus darts behind it, slamming his back against it, a steady mantra of shit, shit, shit taking precedence in his head.

On impulse, Marcus leaps up, clutching his guitar in one hand, and barrels towards the door.

"Oi!", the man roars.

Marcus can't see the man move but he hears his thumping footsteps as he's lunged after and Marcus runs faster than he has ever done.

Just as Marcus thinks he's made it, his fingers closed around the doorknob, ready to throw it back so he can escape to freedom, long fingers grab the collar of his jacket and spin him around. The man shoves Marcus in the centre of his chest so he stumbles hard against the door and wraps Marcus' collar in one sure hand, pinning him against the painted wood. Marcus tries to wriggle out of the man's grasp and holds his guitar up as a kind of shield, solemnly promising he'll give it the send off it deserves when all this is through, as the man pulls back the hand wielding the frying pan.

Of all the ways Marcus imagined dying, having death by frying pan on his gravestone is not an idea he'd even briefly entertained.

Marcus screws his eyes shut and blurts out in a last attempt, "I'm totally not breaking into your flat I got locked out of mine so I picked your lock and was going to use the fire escape to climb through my window!" in one panicked breath and promptly freezes.

When he doesn't feel the pan connecting with his skull, thank fuck, he gingerly cracks an eye open.

The man still has the frying pan raised high above his head and his fingers are white where he's clutching Marcus, but the pan stays where it is. The man's staring at him, wide eyes jumping between both of Marcus', with such incredulity that Marcus' realises he's managed to confuse him into stillness.

Marcus doesn't dare move let alone explain, scared of being bludgeoned to death, so he waits, taking shallow breaths, for the cogs to work in the man's head.

After an extraordinarily long stretch of time, the man finally swallows. "What?"

"I'm not a burglar," Marcus insists, eyes on the frying pan, "I live upstairs. My key broke and so, so I was going to climb through your window and get to my place by the fire escape."

The man only looks more confused, but slowly lets the frying pan drop to his side.

"I'm so sorry," Marcus pleads, lowering his guitar slightly, "I swear, I'm not trying to steal anything, just trying to get home."

The man stares at him, dumbfounded, but Marcus swears he sees something like awe in his gaze as well.

Then, suddenly, the man starts to laugh. He scoffs first, looking between his frying pan, Marcus' guitar and Marcus' scared face but then big, heartfelt peals of laughter escape him as he releases Marcus and regards him in only what can be described as disbelief. Marcus can't help his own smile that breaks through in response, partially due to relief that the man has stepped down but also because he has one of those laughs that is supremely contagious.

"Why would you do that?" The man chokes out between gasping breaths and barks of laughter.

"I don't know," Marcus replies honestly, beginning to snigger himself. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

And then they're both laughing madly at the pure absurdity of their situation. Tears run down the man's face as they howl, and it's not until the hilarity passes some time after five minutes that their guffaws turn into giggles and slowly become chuckles. Marcus' legs give out with the exhaustion of going sharply from terrified to a laughing fit in 0.5 seconds, and he sinks to the floor. The man soon joins him, red-faced and clutching his stomach, sinking to sit opposite him.

"Jesus Christ," the man breathes as they calm down.

"Sorry."

"Why would you...", He's still looking at Marcus in wonder. "This is absurd."

"Yeah," Marcus agrees easily. "I am so sorry."

"Bloody hell," The man waves a hand, dismissing the apologies. "Completely absurd."

The man laughs wearily again and Marcus becomes aware, now that he's not worrying about potentially painful frying pans and being arrested, that the bloke's actually quite attractive. His eyes, now that his pupils have shrunk down to a normal size, are a beautiful yellowy-brown, even golden when the light catches them right, and there's a light dusting of stubble darkening his jaw. His nose is small and straight, and the worn vest he's wearing doesn't hide his firm chest and toned abdominal muscles, convulsing with aftershocks from their hysterics. He's all soft edges, pretty without being feminine, emanating the persona of a good boy that's just asking to be shown how to be bad.

"I'm Ben, by the way." the man says, sticking out his hand.

Marcus clasps it just a little too eagerly. "Marcus."

The corner of Ben's mouth quirks up in a beautiful, tiny half smile and Marcus is suddenly glad of everything that's happened today.

"So your key broke?" Ben asks, snapping Marcus out of his beautiful-man enduced daze.

"Uh, yeah.", Marcus fishes around in his pocket for the circle of metal that was the head of his key and produces it as evidence.

Ben nods, then jerks his thumb towards the window. "And you were gonna...?"

"Climb out your window and up to mine, yeah." Marcus supplies, running a hand through his hair and feeling suddenly ashamed. It sounds stupid now he hears his plan out loud.

"Ridiculous," Ben states, then pushes himself to his feet and holds out a hand for Marcus, pulling him up afterwards. Marcus was right, he's just a couple of inches taller than his neighbour. "Well, there's no chance a locksmith will come out at this time of night. You'll have to stay on the sofa."

Marcus gapes at him. "Are you serious?"

"Well, yeah. You went to all that effort to break in, you might as well stay the night." Ben replies and Marcus grimaces.

"That would actually be amazing," Marcus admits, setting his guitar against the wall next to the door.

"I just have one question," Ben says as he takes Marcus' jacket from his shoulders, throwing it over a bar stool at the kitchen counter island, and Marcus' stomach drops.

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you just check into hotel?"

"Ah, that one's easy. It's too expensive. I can't afford the places 'round here, even for one night."

"What about a hostel?"

Marcus blanches.

"You didn't think of that, did you?" Ben asks with a smirk.

Technically, no, Marcus didn't think of that, but not because of sheer stupidity like Ben's clearly implying. It's personal preference. He's never been one for sharing grimy accommodation with strangers and sleeping on sheets that are made of more stains than fabric. He'd rather get wrongly arrested for breaking and entering than kip in a place like that. Ben's looking at him, smug, and Marcus figures he thinks he's pretty stupid already so he may as well go the whole hog.

"No, I didn't think of that."

Ben rolls his eyes and smiles, and if the row of pearly white teeth he exposes doesn't make Marcus want to kiss him silly, the next thing Ben says does.

"Do you want a beer?"

Marcus stares at him in astonishment. This guy must be his kindred spirit.

It almost seems too good to be true. "Don't you want to go back to bed? I woke you."

Ben shrugs. "Well, I'm awake now, aren't I? Might as well have a drink and get to know my neighbour. You look like you need one, anyway."

Marcus nods, dumbly, and Ben chuckles at him again.

He bobs his head towards the sofa that was Marcus' first line of defence as he collects the frying pan from where it lays forgotten on the floor between them. "Go on, sit. I'll bring some over."

Marcus practically moans as the alcohol floods into his mouth. He can feel Ben's eyes on him as he drinks and then sinks back into the plush sofa cushions.

"Hard day?", Ben asks, a smile in his voice.

"You've no idea." Marcus pouts.

Ben turns to face him. "Tell me all about it."

"Well," Marcus strings out, "I had to get myself to some obscure radio station in the other fucking end of the city, which took a bloody age, only to be rejected. Turned out they'd found someone else to be their 'new promising artist' and just forgotten to tell me."

Ben's eyebrows raise as his lips pop off the rim of his beer bottle. "You're a musician?" he asks. Marcus nods. "That makes sense. I did wonder why a burglar would bring a guitar on one of his heists."

"Piss off!"

"I did!", Ben laughs, and Marcus is caught again by how pretty he is. "That's so interesting, a real musician. Must be exciting, getting to travel around and meet so many new people. Did you always want to do that?"

"Yeah, pretty much. I've played guitar since I was about seven and just stuck to it my whole life. My parents did want me to be a teacher though, and I thought about doing that for a long time."

"Why didn't you?"

"It wasn't what I wanted to do, not really. I wouldn't have been happy, even though I always loved English."

Ben nods, a small smile on his face, and Marcus swears, just for a second, that his beautiful eyes dart down to Marcus' lips.

"What about you? What do you do?"

"I'm a baker," Ben replies and Marcus' chest lifts a little more. Of course he's a baker. He's perfect. "My family owns a bakery so I grew up learning how to do it properly. I love to cook, always have."

"Are you any good at it?", Marcus challenges.

Ben looks him up and down as he swills beer around his mouth, seemingly sizing him up for something. Marcus shifts uncomfortably, suddenly feeling under a spotlight. He can hear his mother's voice telling him to not be so forward and berates himself for it. Really, wow, that's interesting he could've said, what's your favourite thing to make? he could've said, but no, he had to insult him and throw all chances of something happening with this guy out the window. That damn window with its stupid latch.

"Hold that and you can see for yourself," Ben orders, shoving his half empty bottle at Marcus, whose brow furrows, and standing from the sofa.

He goes over to the fridge and seems to reach to the depths of it for something before producing a shining silver tray. Once back on the sofa, Marcus takes in the three rows of five puff pastries, golden and light looking, each with a mountain a fluffy white cream protruding from the top and sprinkled with icing sugar. They're beautiful.

"Woah," Marcus says, staring at the art in front of him then at the art of Ben's face. "You made these?"

"Mhm. They're pretty simple really, just pastry and cream. I can do more impressive stuff." Ben balances the tray so one end is on his knees, the other on Marcus' thigh. "I'm meant to take these to the shop tomorrow but I'm sure two of them won't be missed."

Ben takes their bottles and sets them on the floor before picking one up and biting into it. Marcus is almost too distracted watching Ben's tongue wipe cream from his upper lip to realise he's meant to take one too.

Marcus decides it's best not to follow that train of thought, takes one, briefly ponders how it's very nearly too pretty to eat and promptly takes a huge bite. He quickly concludes that Ben is, in fact, an incredibly good baker.

"Oh my God," Marcus nearly sobs through his mouthful of heaven. "This is amazing."

"Thank you," Ben grins, finishing his off daintily.

Marcus' doesn't last much longer, gone in a number of bites, clearly giving his stamp of approval with each appreciative groan.

"You have, um..." Ben points to the corner of his mouth. "Some sugar."

"Shit," Marcus feels himself flush. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Did I get it?"

Ben shakes his head, obviously fighting back laughter. "Here, let me..."

Ben leans forwards, reaching a hand out. He cups the side of Marcus' face and Marcus tries to remember how to breathe. Ben's brow is furrowed slightly in concentration as he gently removes the offending icing sugar from Marcus' lip with the pad of his thumb. He's so close that Marcus can see every shade of amber-brown in his eyes. He's somewhat taken by surprise to notice that Ben has a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that aren't visible from a normal distance. Ben's gaze flicks from Marcus' lips to his eyes and Marcus is captivated. If he leans forwards a little he can-

Ben lets go of Marcus' face a sits back with a rough sniff.

"I should put these back, before the cream goes off." He says, suddenly awkward, not waiting for Marcus' acknowledgement before darting back to the kitchen area.

There's only a few moments of thick silence, punctuated by Ben moving things around in the fridge, before Marcus gives. Patience has never been his strong suit.

"So do you cook other stuff? Like meals?", he asks. He feels himself relax again when the tension seeps out of Ben's shoulders as they get back onto familiar ground, a silent mutual agreement to not mention whatever the hell just happened. Marcus feels his confidence come back as Ben closes the fridge and turns to him, the expression on his face as friendly as ever. "Because you're too fit to be existing on sugar alone."

They both freeze and Marcus' shit, shit, shit, mantra starts up again.

Ben quirks and eyebrow at him from where he's frozen half way to the sofa and Marcus curses himself for not thinking before he speaks. That definitely sounded a lot less flirty in his head.

"I mean, that's not what I meant, I just meant... like, you're obviously not fat or anything and... I meant like physically fit, not like attractive... not that you're not attractive, because you are, I mean look at you, but, uh... I just... Oh God..."

Marcus feels the blush that rapidly stains his cheeks. Ben, thankfully, like he has done for most of the night, simply laughs at him and resumes his seat.

"Yes, I do. I can cook full meals. Just for myself, and... friends, and stuff, nothing special." Ben's face lights up, "It's a bit of an aspiration to own my own restaurant, actually. Be a proper chef."

"Why don't you? If your meals are as good as your pastries it'd be a bloody five star place!"

Ben laughs at his enthusiasm, but the smile quickly falls. "I can't. It'd be wrong to leave the bakery, to leave my dad. He taught me everything I know, I couldn't turn my back on all of that."

Marcus looks at him for a second, taking in how the sparkle in his eye has dulled considerably. "See, I don't think I could do that." He murmurs.

"Do what?"

"Live a life I'm not happy with."

Ben's smile falters. "Who said I'm not happy?"

"The way your face lit up just now when you were talking shows how much happier it would make you."

Ben blanches "Oh, yeah, right, because your life is so perfect because you took the risky route, Mr. Musician."

"Of course it's not perfect, but I'm not settling. I could never settle. It's why I didn't become a teacher. Music is what I wanted to do, what I was passionate about, and you're sure as hell passionate about becoming a chef."

Ben stares at him, then snorts incredulously. "You've known me for all of an hour. How the hell do you think you know all this shit about me. I'm happy. Of course I'm happy."

"You're content. You earn enough money to get you through. You've found something you're good at. You have people around you, I'll bet, friends and family. You've checked all the boxes. Not happy."

Ben outright scowls. "How dare you-!"

Marcus holds his hand up in defense. "It's just what I think! I don't know how you can accept what's given to you when there's the chance of an extraordinary life out there, if only you'd take it. In a way I commend you, I sure as hell don't have the patience for it. I can't just wait for things to happen. I have to go out and grab them.", Marcus laughs as Ben stares at him. "It's actually exhausting."

Ben doesn't seem to know how to respond to the backhanded compliment, and Marcus knows he's probably said something wrong. He may as well get his coat and cozy down on a street corner for the night.

Ben stares at Marcus for a little longer, trying to process everything he's heard. Marcus quickly gets uncomfortable under his gaze and drops his eyes, fiddling with the label of the cushion beneath him.

His head snaps up when Ben lets out an exasperated laugh and shakes his head.

"You're mental." Ben smiles and something in Marcus' chest flutters. "Absolutely mental."

Marcus shrugs and smiles back. "It's a gift and a curse."

It's now that Marcus regards how close they are sat, the downy sofa cushions depressing under their weight and angling them towards each other. Ben's facing Marcus with his bare foot on the sofa, leg resting against the back of it and the other draped over the edge. Marcus has folded one leg beneath himself, his ankle tucked under his opposite knee, body twisted to face Ben as he rests his elbow on the hard back of the sofa. Marcus' shin is overlapping Ben's toes and pressing against his knee and he knows he's leaning forward slightly. Ben's arm is draped across the back of the sofa, his fingertips grazing the material of Marcus' jumper, though the latter doubts it's a conscious movement.

Their smiles gradually fade but they can't seem to look away from one another. Marcus shifts a little closer, leans in a little more, and, this time, Ben doesn't move away. His lips part ever so slightly and his chest hitches with his caught breath. Ben's eyes give the briefest flicker down to Marcus' lips and Marcus is overcome with the feeling of this being right.

For the umpteenth time that night, Marcus thinks Fuck it, because he'd like to believe in fate and this man seems like a guardian angel after the day he's had.

Marcus surges forward and presses his lips to Ben's. It's awkward at first because Ben is stiff, like he can't quite believe what is happening, and Marcus panics that he misread something somewhere and that Ben is one hundred percent straight and might hit him with that frying pan after all. But then Ben melts, all the tension seeping out of him, and kisses him back. His lips are as soft as they look and slide against Marcus' easily, sucking and pulling. Marcus reaches for Ben's waist as Ben's hand comes to the back of Marcus' head, sliding into his hair and pulling him closer. Marcus can't believe his luck when Ben is the first to open his mouth and tentatively touches his tongue against Marcus' lips.

Marcus lets out an embarrasing little moan as he part his lips and meets Ben's tongue with his own. Before he knows it, Marcus is being pushed back down onto his elbows and Ben is straddling his hips and Marcus wants more, more, more. He can feel his cock beginning to swell and he thinks, begging it's not just his hopeful imagination, that he can feel an answering hardness against his thigh as their hands roam.  

Marcus is descending on Ben's neck, drawing cute, little breathy sighs out of the body on top of him, when Ben abruptly puts a hand on his chest, pushes him down and sits bolt upright, suddenly alert.

The change isn't unlike that of a meerkat, Marcus manages to muse through the haze of want that's settled around his brain. Ben's trying to listen for something, his eyes darting around the room, but all Marcus can think about is the taste of pastry that's still on Ben's tongue.

He moves his grip down to Ben's hips and gently squeezes. "Ben..."

"Shush." Ben admonishes, pushing Marcus back down with a rough hand to his shoulder.

Marcus' brows knit together and he forces himself to strain his ears.

"Shit.", Ben mutters, his eyes wide, and he scrambles off Marcus, scampering over to the kitchen whilst dragging his hands through his hair and then opening a cupboard. Marcus manages to sit up straight, at least.

It's then he hears a key in the lock.

The door opens and a well built man in a suit, with brown, curly hair and piercing grey eyes comes through, giving a heavy sigh.

His eyes land on Ben, who has shut the cupboard and turned around with a pack of rich tea biscuits clasped in his hand. "Hey," the new man says, weary, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Hi," Ben replies eagerly.

The man walks into the room but stops when he see's Marcus sat on his sofa, subtly trying to rearrange himself.

"Hello," he says apprehensively.

Marcus clears his throat. "Hi there."

"Uh, this is Marcus," Ben explains as he walks into the living area and deposits the biscuits on a small table in the corner. "He lives in the flat above us and his key broke and it's too late to call a locksmith and, well, I told him he could stay

the night, on the sofa, if that's okay with you."

"Oh, right, yeah, of course." The man relaxes and smiles at Marcus.

Marcus returns to the flat complex, tired and irritable. He slugged all the way to the other side of London, fucking south of the river, only to find Phoenix records had unceremoniously replaced him as their 'new promising artist of the month' for some kid with waist length hair that's half blonde and half pink, for god's sake, and a ukulele that she probably thinks is terribly bohemian.

He jabs the call lift button with more force than is necessary and stands there for a bit before he notices the 'out of order' sign sellotaped haphazardly to the door in front of him. He gives a world weary sigh and starts for the stairs, muttering to himself about the two buses and the tube he had to embark on to get to the small studio only to be rejected, and why didn't he just become a teacher like his parents wanted?

by the time he arrives at the third floor he's worked himself up into quite a sulk and his front door may as well be glowing he's so happy to see it. He roughly shoves his key into the lock. It sticks a bit, like it always has, and he wiggles it, trying to find that magic angle that will grant him entrance. When it doesn't give, he huffs in frustration, balances his guitar against the wall, and rolls up his sleeves. His is not in the mood for this. All he wants is to get a beer and get in the bath to wash off the smell of public transport and disappointment.

He grabs onto the key that has now decided it won't even slip back out of the lock again and tugs on it with such force that the door rattles, banging against the frame. Of all the ways his day could be topped off, having a wrestling match with his front door was not what he would have chosen. The fingers gripping the head of the key turn white, a frustrated growl escapes him and he's soon swearing, "shit, shit, shit, bloody buggering fuck!" as he continues to be outsmarted by a piece of wood.

The key snaps.

Marcus stares at the circle of metal clasped between his fingers for a moment, then, "FUCK!"

He kicks the door, his heavy boot splintering a dent in the wood. He takes a few steps back, cursing life for letting him get so close to his sanctuary in this hell of all days, and sinks to the floor with his back against the cracked wall opposite his door. Whoever told him being an adult was fun lied to him.

Marcus takes a deep, calming breath and thinks Locksmith. He should call a locksmith. He doesn't know any locksmiths. He should Google where the nearest locksmiths is.

He pulls his iphone from his pocket and pulls up safari. No internet connection available. Of course there fucking isn't.

He crawls over to his door, dragging his weary body across the floorboards and holds his phone against the wood. No connection. He tries to press himself closer, smushing his cheek up against the door. The first empty bar of the wifi symbol fills, flickers, and promptly disappears again. Marcus quietly curses himself. Damn him for putting the router all the way in his bedroom. He looks through the other available connections and selects one, hoping against all odds that the world might cut him some slack already. Password protected.

Didn't he give someone a spare key? Yes, he's sure he did. He can clearly hear his mother's voice, "Make sure you give out spares. You never know what could happen, hm?"

"Hey, Marcus! How'd Phoenix Studios go?"

"Shit. Look, I didn't, by any chance, happen to give you a spare key when I moved into my flat, did I, Winston?"

"Erm... I don't know, you might've."

Marcus pinches the bridge of his nose, his patience wearing thin. "Well can you check?"

"Can I look in a bit? It's just the match's on now - It's great, Baranelli scored after like three minutes and there's already been two yellow cards-"

"Winston. It's late. I am locked out of my flat and I'm about to have a hissy fit. Check for the key. Please."

"Alright, alright, no need to be short. Hold on one sec. If I have it it'll be in the draw of irrelevant things."

"The what?", Marcus asks as sounds of Winston rooting through something jangle down the receiver.

"The draw of irrelevant things. You know, the place you put the useless crap that has no where else to go."

"The key to my flat is useless?"

"Well it's not something you ever expect to actually use, is it? Just something you take as a precaution when a friend asks you to. God, there's so much shit in here."

"Any luck?"

"Yeah, so far I've got a tenner and a lighter that actually works. What colour's the key?"

"Silver.", Marcus replies through gritted teeth.

"Oh, no, I've got a gold one. I think that's for something of Ted's."

"Fabulous."

"Oh, while I've got you, are you still up for meeting with Matthew on Saturday?"

Matthew?

"Er," Marcus sighs, his mind flicking through the many number of faces Winston has sworn are his perfect man since he came out a few months ago, "Matthew, right, yeah, of course."

"Great. You're going to love him, Marcus, I swear. I know he's only been working at the shop for a few weeks but, seriously, you two are one hell of a match. Ooh, Haribos!"

Right. He works at HMV with Winston.

"I think I'll be the judge of that. Have you found it yet?"

"No, and it's not looking good, mate, sorry. If I did have one, I don't anymore."

Marcus lets his head fall back against the concrete of the wall with a thunk, then lets out a worn down "Okay", on a long exhale.

"Sorry, mate. What you going to do?"

"Don't know. Cry, probably."

"Wow. I didn't believe in the stereotype that being queer made you into a sap, but here you are."

"It's been one of those days."

"Aw, princess..."

"Fuck off."

Winston chuckles. "Alright then. Enjoy your misery."

The line goes dead.

"Twat," Marcus tells the phone, then narrows his eyes at the door as he lowers it from his ear.

The sliver of key still jammed in the lock is reflecting the fluorescent light of the corridor, bouncing off the metal and glinting at him, mocking him.

"Fuck you, too.", he sneers.

He sits, stewing in self pity and wondering if this is a big enough problem to call his mum for assistance. Of course, that means that he'd never hear the end of it and she'd make sure every single person in his life had a spare key from now on. No, it wasn't worth the hassle.

He's an adult. A fully grown, proper adult that pays taxes and everything. He can do this by himself.

He stands, hefts his guitar over his shoulder and trudges back dowstairs to the lobby.

No one's at the front desk when he gets there, but he supposes the little bell was placed there for this very reasons, so he rings it with a press of his finger. After waiting a few minutes and with no sign of movement, he rings it again. Now he comes to think of it, he's not sure he's seen anyone behind this desk. Ever. The long congealed ring of what was presumably coffee and month old newspaper on the counter certainly seem to confirm his fears. With the rent as low as it is, the place is not exactly full of bustling staff waiting to make your stay a pleasant one.

Marcus sighs and rubs his fingers over his forhead, trying to quell his imminent headache. Why is nothing ever straightforward?

He stares at the flickering light above him. Think, you idiot, think. There must be something you can do here.

He's vetoed his parents aleady; too stressful. Justin's is farely close, only a couple of tube stops away, but he said something about a concert in Soho tonight. Alex is at dinner with the in-laws so no hope of cadging a night on his sofa either. Nick and Veronica have just got back from their honeymoon and he doesn't really fancy listening to them fucking all night. Everyone else lives just a bit too far away and Marcus is so very tired and he wants his fucking beer already.

Think logically, Marcus. What have you got? The front door's not an option, obviously, so that only leaves the two windows as ways of getting in, one leading into his bedroom, the other into the living room. Yeah, right. What's he going to do? Scale the side of the building like a fucking wannabe spiderman? He's not that desperate.

Unless...

He shifts his guitar a little higher on to his shoulder and traipses outside with his head held high. If this works, the victory beer that's sitting in his fridge right now is going to be very sweet.

He goes down the pavement at the side of the building and looks up at it, exposed electrics and all. He locates his flat, third floor, second from the left. His eyes follow the ladder of the fire escape from what he works out, from the half dead potted plant on the sill, is his living room window. The ladder snakes down the three floors, pasisng two other flats, and he walks up to where it ends above his head.

His heart rises a little. If he can just get this ladder down, he can climb up to his flat and clamber in through the window that he thanks his stars he's never bothered to lock.

He stretches his arm above his head towards the first rung of possibility, but there's still a good two feet of space before between his waggling fingers and the cold metal. He looks around for something, anything, to give him some height.

Across the road there's an offensively bright yellow plastic crate outside the side entrance of an antiques shop which, Marcus assumes, must have once been full of stock and then forgotten to be cleared away by which ever teenager has miraculously claimed a job there.

He rushes over, grabs the box, and sets it below the ladder. He stands on it and it bends under his weight, but holds. He grits his teeth and stretches up again.

There's still just over a foot a air to cover.

Fuck. This isn't going to work. Never again will he scoff at Winston for wanting to be able to fly. If there were ever a time to develop a super power, now would be a relatively good one.

He looks up. The bizarre question crosses his mind of why he's never actually sat out on the fire escape before. Three floors promises a decent view of the city to take in with a cup of coffee, a cigarette and a good book. He wonders if his neighbours have ever done it, straddled the window sill and watched the sunset or something.

His eyes widen as an idea hits him like a speeding train.

It's ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous, but it may well be his only hope. And after the day he's had, he's long past the point of worrying about his sanity.

He eyes the window below his, thinks Fuck it and makes his decision. He's tired and cold and he's had a shit day and all he can think about is that fucking beer waiting in his fridge.