#tomarktober

Cold hands close around his throat, cutting off the flow of air. He struggles desperately, clawing at the arms that immobilize him. They squeeze tighter, leaving him unable to draw breath back into his chest. Soon, he gives up and goes limp in the grip of his captor. He can feel the life slipping away, his eyes closing...

Mark's eyes fly open, and he sits up gasping for breath. He scans his surroundings, taking in the blankets pooled around his knees, the rumpled sheets under his palms.

It's okay, he chants softly to himself, laying back down in an attempt to go back to sleep.

It was just a stupid dream.

Suddenly, the dark is overwhelming; heavy and suffocating.

Mark begins to sweat, every nerve ending on fire, his skin warm to the touch. Then he feels it, a strange tingling sensation in his neck, like a sign that he's in danger; that he has to protect himself.

His breathing speeds up again as he tries desperately to rid himself of the terrible feeling, getting more worked up as his attempts fail, one after another. Tossing and turning, sitting up, holding his breath.

Finally, the blue-eyed boy forces his fingers to dig into the sides of his neck, digging into the thin skin. The sensation fades away, but Mark's anxiety stays.

What was that? Would it come back? Did he have some terrible disease? Cancer? You could get cancer in your throat, right?

He emits a helpless whimper, mind spinning and thoughts rushing by to quickly for him to grab on to any particular one.

So he grabs his blanket, wraps it around his shoulders, and shuffles down the hall to, what he hopes will be, his sweet salvation.

"Mark, baby, is that you?" Tom sounds groggy, forcing himself awake to fully acknowledge the shadow in the doorway.

Mark hums in reply, wrapping his blanket tighter around himself and trying desperately to ignore the awful prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

"C'mere, don't just stand all the way over-"

The younger boy is interrupted by Mark dropping the blanket from around his shoulders and running to the bed. He throws his arms around Tom's neck, who quickly opens his own to catch him in surprise. Mark clings to him like a koala, burying his face in the the broad expanse of Tom's chest, attempting to make himself as small as he possibly can.

The warm, uncomfortable feeling around his neck returns, and Mark winces, releasing Tom slightly so he can press his calloused fingertips harshly into the side of his neck until it passes.

Tom narrows his eyes with concern, though it goes unnoticed in the dark of the too-early morning. He slides his hands through Mark's hair, trying to soothe whatever inner turmoil has surfaced this time.

Mark releases his throat and curls back into the brown-eyes boy's side, laying down with the covers pulled up as high as they go.

"What's going on love?" Tom asks, insistent and pressing.

Mark takes a breath, unsure of where to begin or how to say it.

"I don't know, I woke up from a nightmare about somebody suffocating me until I died, but when I woke up, something happened with my neck an'-" He takes a rattly inhale, forcing himself to continue. "It feels like this hot, unbearable feeling buzzing under my skin, like a warning that someone is about to go after my neck-" The blue-eyed boy breaks off, muffling a fearful whine and hiding his face in Tom's shoulder.

Tom presses a kiss to the crown of his head, running his fingers up and down the expanse of his back. There was nothing he could really say when Mark got like this, too freaked out to even finish his own sentences.

"Can I touch?" The question is quiet, barely reaching Mark's ears as it leaves Tom's mouth.

Mark nods hesitantly, twisting his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt.

Tom slips his hands around Mark's throat, not pressing, just holding it.

The insufferable sensation immediately disappears, replaced by the heavy comfort of Tom's warm hands.

"Better?" Tom smirks, feeling Mark go lax under the touch, the tension flowing out of his shoulders as he relaxes.

The older boy hums in affirmation, releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding. For the first time all night, he feels completely and utterly safe, wrapped in the haven of Tom's long arms.

The colorful leaves crunch under their shoes as they make their way through the vast pumpkin patch.

"How about this one?" Mark points to a particularly big pumpkin half shrouded in the tall grass surrounding it.

Tom shakes his head, scrutinizing the oversized orange fruit and knitting his eyebrows before moving on down the row.

"Too big," he states as way of explanation.

Mark rolls his eyes and follows, shoving his hands in the pockets of his shorts.

Soon they happen upon one that Tom deems to be perfect.

It soft ochre skin glows in the early evenings gloam, the perfect size and color, bright against the dark silhouettes of the open field's trees.

Mark gently picks it up and they head towards the wooden stand in the front to pay.

Tom fumbles for his wallet, searching for the bills and handing them over to the sun-worn farmer manning the counter, who gives them a tired smile and wishes them a good night.

The blue-eyed boy hauls the pumpkin to the awaiting car and plops it in the backseat.

Tom slips into the driver's seat and buckles his seatbelt, watching as Mark collapses into the passenger side.

"Tired?" Tom smirks, putting the car and reverse pulling out, enjoying how the older boy scrambles to shut his door.

When he's situated, Mark leans back against his seat with a sigh.

"Yeah, work kicked my butt," he replies, "The only reason I'm not asleep right now is because you wanted to get a stupid pumpkin tonight."

"Hey it's not stupid," Tom argues, but Mark is barely listening, exhaustion settling deep and heavy in his bones.

He lets his eyes fall shut, intent on just resting them, but before he knows it he's asleep, face smashed against the glass of the window.

Tom drives slowly, avoiding the bumps in the uneven streets of Southern California at dusk. He occasionally glances over and revels in the sight of the soft features of Mark's face illuminated in the flickering light of the passing streetlights, peaceful in his slumber.

When they arrive back at their apartment, Tom turns off the engine and languidly shakes Mark awake, who startles with an unintelligible grunt.

"C'mon sleepyhead, we're home," Tom says softly, reaching for the prized pumpkin and getting out of the car.

Mark stumbles out behind him, slamming the door behind him with a hefty shove.

They climb the stairs to their shared apartment, where Tom seizes the key from his pocket and turns the lock.

Mark staggers to the kitchen table, where there's already a set up containing a trash bag taped to the table and an assortment of knifes.

"Are you sure you still want to carve it today?" the taller boy asks, setting the pumpkin down on the table and turning to face Mark.

Mark nods and snatches one of the knives, tracing a circle around the top until it comes lose and he can pull off the gnarled stem.

Tom joins the dismembering, sticking his hands inside and pulling out clumps off the slimy seed-filled guts.

When it's empty, Tom takes the knife and begins to carve out the face, hiding his design from Mark.

He finishes and puts the fake candle inside, revealing the pumpkin with a dramatic flourish.

It's a dick.

No triangle eyes or crooked gap-toothed grin.

Glowing in the pale yellow light of the internal LED, the undeniable figure of a cock stands up proud.

"It's yours," Tom grins, extremely proud of himself.

It's 1994, and Mark's watching Tom show him some new trick on his skateboard. Well, he's not really watching the stunt. He's focused on how beautiful Tom looks in the moment, his face scrunched in concentration as he wills his feet to move the way he wants. Mark wishes he could commit this all to memory, the way the San Diego sun feels on a summer afternoon, the way Tom's lengthening hair keeps falling into his eyes when he laughs, but it will never feel like this again, and he knows it.

It's 1995, and Mark's collapsed in a crappy van after an outside show, sweaty and exhausted and proud. He barely focused on the music, on the way his fingers always seemed to stray from the correct notes. Tom was a star, a supernova in sky full of clouds. Outshining everyone. He tended to do that. His energy was contagious, eyes alight with a passionate kind of fire, the one that ignites when he's doing something he loves. Mark knows this because he knows Tom. He will always know Tom, no matter how much time passes. No matter how far a distance seperates them. He's sure of that.

It's 1996, and Mark's kissing Tom in the safety of their motel room. It's small and smells like something died in a corner and was never swept away, but it's private and that's enough. Tom has one hand under Mark's shirt and another tangled in his hair, and Mark is begging him to go farther, to follow through while they have the chance. But Tom is focused on their careers, no matter how much he knows he wants it too. We'll be gone before we even get started, he whispers, guilt flashing in his eyes as he pulls away, That's just the way it goes.

It's 1997, and Mark's in Tom's basement, writing riff and lyrics together, singing the two sides to a melody that only they know. Mark tries to concentrate on the music because he knows that's what matters to Tom, but every line he gets down sounds alike, every note the same tone. Tom is on fire, eliciting pitches from his guitar that Mark didn't even know existed. And his lyrics are more than just words. They're a truth and god, how Mark wants it's to be real, this thing they've got. Tom scribbles down another line on the paper in front of him, the tip of his tongue poking through his lips. I wish it didn't have to be so bad.

But it's not 1994. It's not 1995, or 1996, or 1997. It's 2007 and Mark's sitting in the bathtub, clothed, with the cold water on full blast, a half-empty bottle of wine clutched in one of his shaking hands. No matter how deep he drowns them, the demons of his being always drag themselves to the surface, holding him by the back of his neck and forcing him to watch as his life crumbles, knowing he can do nothing to stop it's inevitable ruin.

I wish it didn't have to be so bad.

There was a time when Mark couldn't have gone a few hours without talking to Tom, but recently those hours have stretched to days months, years. His absence tore a hole in Mark's heart, and no amount of time can heal it. He's sure of it. All he's left with is Tom's ghost, whispering bitterly in his ear when Marks alone with his thoughts.

The clock had hardly reset itself to 1 from 12, the sun barely starting it's slow decent from the sky, but Tom was already in bed, settling down for an afternoon nap.

He had just closed his eyes, pleasantly warm under the covers, when he heard the bedroom door open and felt the blanket lift as someone else climbed in.

Tom hums in surprise, welcoming the body curling next to his.

"Hey, honey," he whispers, wrapping an arm around Mark's frame, who nuzzles closer in response. "You okay?"

Mark doesn't respond at first, too intent on making himself comfortable with Tom's chest as his pillow. When he deems himself settled, he nods slightly, his hair getting caught in the crook of Tom's arm.

"Jus' sleepy," he mumbles, eyes already shut as if to prove himself.

"I'll bet," Tom replies, laughing quietly, "You hardly slept at all last night."

Mark flushes a light red at the memory of the previous night, when his insomnia had gripped him so hard and long he had tossed and turned for the better half of it, at one point accidentally shoving a snoring Tom off the side of the bed.

He had felt so bad afterwards, no matter how much Tom reassured him that it was fine, that he insisted sleeping on the couch by himself the rest of the night.

"I said I was sorry," Mark whines, opening his bright blue eyes to glare at Tom indignantly.

"I knew you were," Tom croons, stroking Mark's long brown locks, gently twisting the stands between his fingers.

Mark huffs in annoyance, but accepts the touch, lifting his head and baring his toned neck. Tom slips his hand to cup Mark's cheek, rubs his thumb lightly over his closed eyelids before bending his fingers under his chin and pulling his face closer to his own.

He lightly brushes his lips against Mark's, no more than a fleeting touch, but the older boy's eyes fly open in surprise.

He accepts it eagerly, reaching his own hand up to cling to Tom's neck. They seperate reluctantly, Mark still gazing into Tom's warm brown eyes, savoring every moment of love.

The skate park is completely empty, bathed in the flickering light of a lone lampost. Per usual, the locked door and chain-link fence did little to stop them from having the time of their lives.

Mark jumps down first, cursing as his ankle slips sideways and he stumbles, nearly slipping on Tom's board, abandoned on the ground from where it was tossed over the fence.

Tom is close behind, grunting as he hits the ground. He raises his eyes to meet Mark's, a smile growing on his face as he straightens up and brushes off his shorts.

"Ready?" he asks, offering his hand like a prince would to a princess, complete with a charming grin and a twinkle in his brown eyes.

Mark slaps his hand, like any good-natured princess would do, picks up his board and starts off towards the skate park by himself.

Tom has the audacity to look offended, eyebrows knit together and jaw dropped.

He follows, albeit reluctantly, doing mindless tricks, spinning the wood between his feet with graceful ease.

Mark stops by the bowl, edging the skateboard forward till the front half dangled over the cement pit. Shifting his weight, he slides down the wall and comes to a halt at the bottom, looking up to where to Tom stands and raising his eyebrows.

The younger boy shakes his head and points to the the metal pole a few feet away.

"I wanna work on that," he says, tugging the long sleeves of his Hurley shirt and biting his lip.

"Alright," Mark replies, "just try not to break your neck."

He had only turned his back for half a second before he heard a loud crash and such a colorfull wave of cursing that it would make even a sailor blush.

Mark whips around to find Tom crouched by the end of the pole, knees scraped, crimson running down his calfs in streams down to his socks.

"Fucking fuckers," he mutters, wiping at his eyes and sniffling.

"You okay?" Mark calls out, already propping his checkered Vans up on the side of the bowl to climb out, skateboard left forgotten behind him.

"Mhmm hmm," Tom nods, eyes stinging more from the arrant humiliation of it than the pain.

Mark pulls himself up the sloped wall and takes a few unsteady steps before heading to where Tom sits, aided by the musky light of a full moon shrouded by clouds. He sits on his heels, leaning in and inspecting the younger boy's injuries.

"Man, I turned my back for one second and what do you?" Mark laments, picking up Tom's ankle and bending his leg slightly, "Try to break you neck, that's what."

Tom grimaces, a soft wimper escaping his lips as Mark touches closer to the scrape.

"Take off your shirt," the older boy says suddenly.

"Isn't that a bit foward?" Tom retorts, somehow always ready to turn everything into a crappy joke.

However, Mark is having none of it.

"No you asshole, so I can wipe up all this damn blood," he says, fingers already stained red from the copious amounts still trickling down Tom's legs.

Tom shakes his head, clinging to his shirt.

"I just brought this one," he whines.

Mark audibly groans, reaching for the hem of his own Cure t-shirt and raising it above his head.

Tom raises his eyebrows in shocked surprise as Mark dabs at the gashes on his knees, the carmine soaking into the dark fabric.

"Thanks," Tom says quietly, casting his eyes to the ground, avoiding Mark's piercing blue

gaze.

"No problem," Mark smiles, slowing his motions and standing up, tossing the blood-soaked shirt over his shoulder.

The moonlight shines down in rays around them, the celestial body having finally peaked around the clouds. Tom chances a glance at Mark's shirtless frame, contours bathing in the pale glow. He fixates his gaze on Mark's nipple piercing, glinting above the shadow cast by his pec.

Mark catches him staring and waves a hand in front of his face, offering his other hand to help the boy stand.

"Like what you see?" he smirks, hoisting Tom to his feet.

Tom hisses in pain as he stretches his legs.

"Fuck I was so stupid," he says, scratching at his upper arms and blatantly ignoring Mark's comment.

"Hey it's okay," Mark replies, gathering their boards and wrapping an arm under Tom's shoulders to steady him. "Everyone makes mistakes."

"Yeah that's how you got here," Tom retaliates, "Asshole."

Mark mocks offense and nearly shoves him away before remembering his friend's current condition.

"I'm your favorite mistake," he quips, nuzzling his forehead against Tom's, sharing his breath.

Tom leans in, bushing his lips against Mark's in a soft kiss.

Tom was running. Again. The door had slammed behind him, indicating that he had not decided to follow. Thank whatever god still had the heart to listen to his silent pleas anymore.

His legs had gone numb awhile back, but still he pushed them to go as far as they could possibly take him. As far away as he could possibly get.

He feels something warm running down his arm, and he isn't surprised by the sight of blood running down his arm and falling to the asphalt below. He welcomes the pain. That is, until his sneaker catches on a rut in the path and he goes spiraling face first into the road.

Feeling the rocks embed themselves deep in his skin, he sits up, palms and cheeks burning.

He's never felt so defeated in all 16 years of his life. He drags himself to the side walk, blood trickling down his legs. Staring at his shoes, he feels the fight leave him. He has no more tears left to cry. He's numb.

When he pulls himself to his feet hours later, dusk has fallen over the neighborhood like a cloud, heavy and musky and suffocating.

He doesn't even remember starting to walk, only that his feet have a place in mind, one his brain doesn't need to lead him to. His heart can do that all on its own.

Mark opens the door on the first knock, his face falling at the bruised and defeated boy on his door step, who's holding in every emotion that wants to take over, his face screwed up in determination.

Mark pulls Tom inside, letting the light cast it's glow on his day old markings, on the splotches of blood covering his visable skin.

"What did he do to you?" Mark whispers, holding the now shaking boy impossibly closer to his chest.

Tom doesn't answer, still struggling against the turmoil rolling through him like a stormy sea, but it's a losing battle, his resolve crumbling under Mark's gaze.

The tears roll down his cheeks before he can stop them, and he wipes them away angrily as Mark shushes him, stroking the fine hairs on the back to Tom's neck.

They make their way to the haven of Mark's bedroom, Mark urging Tom to stay quiet as they shuffle past his parent's room.

Most of the night has passed by the time they're in Mark's bed with the covers pulled as high as they can go, the only noise the occasional click and whir of the ceiling fan spinning above them.

Tom starts to tremble again, but Mark mumbles clumsy reassurances until his breathing evens out, till the tears have dried cool on his face and the sobs have died unheard in the back to his throat.

Even after he knows Tom is asleep, Mark keeps talking, breathing from where his nose is buried in Tom's rumpled hair, promising him over and over as many times as Tom needs to hear it, even in his subconscious.

The carnival, with its boisterous noises and flashy lights, was the perfect escape on a Friday night.

But it came with its downsides, such as being only available to the boys after their respective work days, which means that it's completely dark out by the time they can go together.

Tom's day has sucked. Royally sucked. He just wanted to forget the whole 12 hours had ever happened, and what better way to do that then hang out with Mark. There was no better way; Mark always managed to take his mind off of everything.

Today was no different. They went on rides, screaming at the smallest turns; ate the greasiest food known to mankind; and kissed at the top of the ferris wheel, not giving a single fuck about who's kids say what from below.

But Tom was exhausted. Bone tired. Done. Finito. He dragged his feet for hours around the fair, every second feeling as though his eyelids weighed a thousand pounds. By the time Mark noticed his state, he was sleeping on his feet like a horse.

"You tired or something?" Mark quips, smiling that smile of his and reaching a hand to rest on Tom's shoulder, steadying him.

Tom hums an affirmation, leaning heavily on Mark, causing them to stumble as they walk to the car.

Mark opens the door and dumps Tom inside before heading to the driver's side putting the car in reverse.

The drive back to their apartment is short, under five minutes, but Tom passes out hard the second the journey starts. Mark glances over to find him asleep, face smashed against the glass of the window, and soft snores escaping his parted mouth.

How am I gonna get him out of here? Mark wonders nervously. He doesn't want to wake him because the boy needs all the rest he can possibly get. His job works him to the bone and then some, grinding those bones into fucking dust.

A few minutes later, they pull up to their run-down apartment. Mark switches the car off and casts a wary gaze at Tom, who's still sleeping soundly. He makes up his mind that he'll carry him inside, greatful that their home is one the ground floor.

The older boy slips his arms under Tom's head and legs, gently lifting him closer to his own body.

Holy crap was he heavy. Mark strains the whole trip, his biceps screaming in protest the entire time. Tom doesn't stir, even when Mark has to juggle him around in his arms to fumble for the keys to the door.

He shoves it open and speed walks to their bedroom, where he tucks Tom into their bed. Mark lets himself have a selfish moment, softly brushing a strand of Tom's hair out of his face, leaving a soft kiss on his forehead as the younger boy dreams. Tom squirms in his sleep, a small smile growing on his face.

The blue-eyed boy leaves the room to lock the front door which was left open when he stumbled through the threshold with his hands full. He stands in the kitchen for a moment, debating on whether or not he forgotten anything. When he can't think of anything else he could have possibly needed to do, he returns to the bed and flops down, uncaring of the dirty carnival clothes in their sheets.

I'll just change them tomorrow, he thinks, pulling the covers higher and throwing an arm over Tom.

Mark pulls him closer, till his chest is flush to Tom's back. As usual, the clothed contact annoyed him, but he didn't want to risk waking Tom by taking off his shirt.