#toypaj

Often, Mark would go by Tom’s house to shoot the shit with him or play music together, and you would be there, laying with your legs on Tom’s bed and your head nearly touching the floor, playing riffs on a beat up used Stratocaster that Mark had never quite figured out who it belonged to. It might’ve been yours and it might’ve been Tom’s, but he’d been too closely intertwined with you two for too long to ask anymore. 

You’d had a bit of a crush on Mark for maybe a year, and Tom had figured it out about six months ago. It was his favorite thing to give you shit about. You’d sit with Tom and Mark and hang out until Mark would leave, and then Tom would immediately turn on you. “Don’t you know how to flirt?”

“I know how to flirt,” you scoffed back, annoyed.

“Then actually flirt with him,” Tom argued, laughing. “God’s sakes, I flirt with him more than you do.”

“Tom, dick jokes do not count as flirting,” you reminded.

“Regardless!” Tom proclaimed. “Just make him sweat a little.”

“I said I could flirt, I didn’t say I could do it well,” you replied.

“It’s really not difficult,” Tom said with an almost smile. “You just sorta go based off what they say, right? If he says your name once and you don’t answer, and he says it again, all you gotta do is turn and say, ‘that’s my name, don’t wear it out.’ Boom!” 

You snorted. “And this works for you, huh?”

“Hell yeah,” Tom grinned. “I got way more game than you do.”

You rolled your eyes at him. 

"Okay, give me another one," you said, mostly because you knew it would make him insufferable, and you liked him insufferable.

Tom lit up. He lived for this. "Okay, okay. If he's telling a story and he goes off on a tangent — which he always does—"

"He really does."

"—you just look at him and go, 'you're really something, you know that?'" Tom demonstrated with finger guns. "Works every time. They never know if you mean it as a compliment or not."

"Do you mean it as a compliment?"

"Fifty-fifty," Tom said. "That's the beauty of it."

You laughed despite yourself, pulling your knees up to your chest. "You're genuinely insane."

"I'm genuinely helpful," he corrected. "There's a difference. Look, all I'm saying is — Dude Ranch comes out Friday. I'm throwing a thing. Mark's gonna be here, obviously, he was on the album, and you should just—" he made a vague, sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass an entire philosophy of life. "You know."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do."

"Tom."

"Just talk to him," he said, exasperated. "Like you do when I'm in the room. Except maybe act like you like him a little. Which you do. Which is embarrassing for you, frankly, because you're so obvious."

"I hate you," you said pleasantly.

"You love me," he said, already reaching for his guitar.

Tom's house had that particular Friday night energy — the kind that only happened when parents were gone and something felt like it was actually worth celebrating. People were spilling out of the living room into the backyard, someone had turned the stereo up loud enough that the bass carried through the walls, and somewhere in the kitchen there was a debate happening about something nobody was going to remember tomorrow.

You'd gotten there early, which in retrospect felt like a tactical error. It meant you'd already run out of things to do with your hands by the time Mark showed up.

You heard him before you saw him — his laugh, cutting through the low roar of the party, and then Tom's answering cackle, and then the two of them were in the doorway and Tom was already scanning the room. His eyes found you immediately. He pointed at you with the kind of subtlety of a man who had never been subtle a day in his life.

Mark turned.

You looked away, which was definitely smooth, and took a long sip of your drink.

A few minutes passed. You talked to some people. You were very normal about everything. And then Mark materialized beside you, leaning against the wall with his cup, and said, "Tom literally just pointed at you."

"I saw," you said.

"Is there a reason he did that?"

You looked at him then, because there wasn't really a way around it. He was watching you with something that wasn't quite a smile but was close — like he was waiting to see what you'd do with the question.

"You know Tom," you said. "Does he need a reason?"

"Fair," Mark said. He tilted his head. "You been here long?"

"Long enough."

He nodded slowly, like that meant something. "You listened to it yet? The album?"

"Parts of it," you said. "Tom played me some stuff."

"And?"

You considered him for a moment. Somewhere across the room, you were ninety percent sure Tom was watching, and you made a decision not to think about that.

"You're really something, you know that?" you said.

Mark blinked. Then something shifted in his expression — not confusion exactly, more like recalibration. "Yeah?"

"The album's good," you said. "I just thought you should know."

He was quiet for a second. Then he laughed, soft and a little surprised, and said, "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Don't get used to it," you told him.

"I don't know," Mark said, and he wasn't quite looking away. "I think I could."

You might have said something back. You were working on it, actually — something that didn't sound like you were overthinking it, something easy, something that matched the way he was looking at you — and then Tom appeared between you like he'd been launched from a catapult.

"You guys are talking!" he announced, to no one, to everyone, to God. "This is great. This is so great."

"Tom," you said.

"No, don't mind me," he said, minding you enormously, throwing an arm around each of your shoulders. "I'm just so happy. I'm just a happy guy. Mark, doesn't she look great tonight?"

"Tom—" Mark started.

"Because I think she looks great," Tom continued. "I said that earlier. I said, 'Mark's gonna be here,' and she got all—" he made a face that was apparently meant to represent you, which was offensive, "—you know how she gets."

"I don't know how she gets," Mark said, and he was trying not to smile, which was somehow worse than if he had.

"She gets weird," Tom said helpfully. "She gets all quiet and weird. You've seen it."

"I'm standing right here," you said.

"I know!" Tom said warmly. He squeezed your shoulder. "Okay. I'm gonna go get a drink. You two—" he made the finger guns again, the same ones from earlier, pointed at both of you now like he was blessing you, "—carry on."

He was gone as fast as he'd arrived.

There was a beat of silence.

"So," Mark said.

"So," you said.

"You got all weird, huh."

You closed your eyes briefly. "I'm going to kill him."

"Seems fair," Mark said. He hadn't moved. That was the thing — Tom had blown through like a weather event and Mark was still right there, still leaning against the wall, still holding his cup, still watching you with that same almost-smile. "For what it's worth," he said, "I don't think you seem weird."

"High bar," you said.

"I think you seem like you've got something on your mind," he said. "And I think Tom's been trying to get us to talk all night."

You looked at him. "Tom's been trying to get us to talk for six months."

Something moved across his face — surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you said.

He was quiet for a moment. The party moved around you, loud and indifferent, and it felt suddenly like you were standing in a small pocket of something different from the rest of the night.

"Okay," Mark said finally, and he turned so he was facing you a little more fully. "So talk to me."

It was a stupid thing, to suddenly not know what to say. You'd talked to Mark a hundred times. You'd sat in Tom's living room with him for hours, trading commentary on bad TV and debating things that didn't matter, and it had never felt like this — like the words had somewhere important to be and you couldn't figure out the order.

"You're thinking too hard," Mark said.

"I'm not thinking at all," you said. "That's the problem."

He laughed at that, short and genuine. "Okay. I'll start." He shifted against the wall, angling toward you a little more. "How come we never hang out without Tom?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Like, just us," he said. "How come that's never happened?"

"I don't know," you said slowly. "Tom's always just — there."

"Tom's always everywhere," Mark agreed. "But you could've called me. I would've picked up."

Something about the simplicity of that landed strangely. I would've picked up. Like it was obvious. Like the door had been open the whole time and you'd just been standing outside it.

"I didn't know that," you said.

"Now you do," he said.

You looked at him for a moment. "Is this you telling me to call you?"

"Maybe," Mark said. The almost-smile was back. "I'm being subtle about it."

"You're really not."

"No," he admitted, "I'm really not."

Across the room, someone turned the music up another notch, and the conversation around you got louder to compensate. You leaned in slightly without thinking about it, and so did he, and suddenly the distance between you was different than it had been a minute ago.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

"Yeah."

"Did Tom say anything to you?" you asked. "Like — about me."

Mark's expression did something complicated. "Tom says a lot of things."

"That's not an answer."

"No," he said. "It's not." He looked at you evenly. "He might've mentioned something. Once or twice."

"Oh my god," you said.

"In his defense—"

"There is no defense," you said. "He's been talking to you about it?"

"Not talking," Mark said, carefully. "More like — implying. Loudly. Over a long period of time."

You pressed your hand over your face. "I'm actually going to kill him."

"You said that already."

"I mean it more now."

Mark was quiet for a second. Then, gently: "Hey."

You dropped your hand.

"I didn't mind," he said simply. "That's all I'm saying. Whatever he was implying." He paused. "I didn't mind."

The party kept going around you, totally unaware that something was happening in this small corner of Tom's living room, up against the wall by the speaker that crackled a little on the high end. You were aware of everything suddenly — the music, the noise, the way Mark was watching you like he had more to say and was deciding how much of it to give you.

"I've had a crush on you for like a year," you said. It came out very flat and very calm, which was not how it felt.

Mark nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Tom figured it out six months ago and has apparently been conducting some kind of campaign."

"That tracks," Mark said.

"And you didn't mind," you said.

"I didn't mind," he confirmed.

"Because—"

"Because," he said, and he smiled then, full and unhurried, "I've had a crush on you for like a year."

You stared at him.

"Tom figured it out," Mark added, "probably around the same time."

"So he's been playing both sides," you said.

"Classic Tom," Mark said.

You laughed before you could stop it, and he did too, and for a moment it was just that — the two of you laughing about Tom in the middle of a party while Dude Ranch played in the background and everything felt easy in a way it probably should've felt months ago.

When it settled, Mark was still looking at you.

"So," he said.

"So," you said.

"You want to get out of here for a little bit?" he asked. "Just — the backyard or something. Somewhere quieter."

"Yeah," you said. "I really do."

Tom's backyard was nothing special — a square of grass, a rusting basketball hoop, a back porch with two steps down to the lawn and a wooden swing hanging from the overhang that had been there so long nobody remembered who'd put it up. It fit two people if they didn't mind being close, which, it turned out, you didn't.

The noise from inside was muffled out here. You could still feel the bass through the walls but it was distant, like weather. The air was warm and smelled like summer and somebody's cigarette from two yards over.

Mark sat down first and the swing shifted under him, chains creaking. You sat beside him and your shoulders touched immediately, which neither of you addressed.

For a little while you just let it swing, slow and directionless, feet dragging lightly against the porch boards.

"Better," Mark said.

"Yeah," you agreed.

The quiet between you was a different kind than the one inside — that one had been charged, electric, full of things waiting to be said. This one was easier. Like something had been decided and now you were both just living inside it.

"Can I ask you something?" Mark said.

"You asked me that inside and I asked you something instead," you pointed out.

"I know," he said. "I'm trying again."

"Go ahead."

He looked out at the yard. "What were you gonna do if I hadn't said anything? Like — if I'd just let you say it and then changed the subject."

"Died, probably," you said. "Instantly. On the spot."

He laughed. "I wasn't gonna do that."

"I know that now."

"Did you know it then?"

You thought about it honestly. "No," you admitted. "I really didn't."

He nodded, like that meant something to him. His arm shifted, not quite around you but resting along the back of the swing, and you felt the warmth of it behind your shoulders.

"For what it's worth," he said, "I almost said something like three months ago."

You turned to look at him. "What stopped you?"

"Tom was right there," Mark said.

"Tom is always right there," you said.

"Yeah." He looked back at you, and the porch light was doing something gentle to the angles of his face. "He's not right here though."

"No," you said. "He's not."

The swing had slowed to almost nothing. You weren't sure when you'd stopped moving. The space between you had gone small and still and specific, the kind that asked a question without saying anything.

Mark answered it.

It was soft, the way he kissed you — a little careful, like he was making sure, and then less careful when you kissed him back. His hand came up to your jaw, easy and warm, and the swing shifted slightly beneath you both, chains giving a low creak, and the party inside went on completely without you and that was just fine.

When you pulled back, you were both quiet for a second.

"Okay," Mark said softly.

"Okay," you agreed.

He was smiling. You could feel yourself smiling. It was embarrassing how much you were smiling, actually, and you were about to say something about that when the back door swung open with significant force and Tom appeared in the frame, silhouetted by the kitchen light, holding two drinks he had clearly not been asked to bring.

He looked at you.

He looked at Mark.

He looked at the very small distance between you, and the way neither of you had moved apart, and the fact that you were both smiling like idiots.

"OH," Tom said, at a volume completely inappropriate for a back porch. "OH, OKAY—"

"Tom—" Mark started.

"NO I JUST—" Tom gestured wildly with both drinks, sloshing one of them. "I just wanted to see if you guys needed anything and it turns out you clearly do NOT—"

"Tom, close the door," you said.

"I am SO happy," Tom said, not closing the door. "I have been waiting for this for SO LONG—"

"Thomas," Mark said.

"I'm going, I'm going." He pointed at both of you again, the finger guns, triumphant and unhinged. "I knew it. I knew it, I called it, you both owe me."

"Get out," you said, but you were still smiling and he knew it.

"Closing the door," Tom announced. "You're welcome, by the way. You're both so welcome."

The door shut.

There was a beat of perfect silence.