tumblr prompt fills

Thing is, everybody in this school is intimidating.

Not physically; not really. The jocks are all lacrosse or polo players and Mark knows that he could easily fight three or four of them and still probably win. These fancy private school people don’t know how to throw a punch – most of them have only been taught the basics of self-defense, if anything.

But they’re all little princes and princesses trying to network with other heirs of the most influential families, and Mark doesn’t feel like he qualifies. It’s probably public knowledge that the Mardons run a business of extortion and weapon trade, so nobody really makes an attempt to talk to Mark: they’re all too busy trying to snatch up the best friend position with future senators and CEOs.

It’s not like he’s completely alone. There’s Clyde; but Clyde is a senior and his tight-knit group of friends doesn’t put hanging out with freshmen high on their priority list. Mark’s brother will nod and smile and wave at him when they pass each other in the corridor, he’ll ask how Mark’s doing, but that’s about it.

There’s only one other person who looks equally lonely by the time the first week’s over. It takes Mark another week to gather up the courage to go and sit at the table with Hartley Rathaway, but he tells himself he’s got nothing to fear.

“Can I help you?” Hartley asks, without looking up from his plate, and Mark swallows. Hartley makes the words sound like ‘fuck off,’ reminding everyone that he’s not alone because his family name doesn’t ring strong enough – no. He’s alone because he spends every minute of every day being a dick to everyone around. The guy came out immediately upon his arrival in this school, and he’s had a very ‘fuck you all’ attitude since day one – it kind of made Mark want to get to know him, underneath that bravado and acerbic sneers, because even in this day and age, it took some guts to be so open. Mark wishes he could do the same.

“Hey,” Mark says weakly. Hartley finally glances up, but Mark almost wishes he wouldn’t.

“What’re you doing?”

Hartley’s voice is suspicion and derision mixed into one, and Mark bites his lip.

“I thought… you’re always alone. And I’m alone, too.”

It’s stupid, and Hartley probably thinks so too, because he raises one eyebrow over his glasses and snorts.

“Didn’t it occur to you that I would rather be alone than socialize with all of you boring knuckleheads?”

It did – Mark just hoped he could exclude himself from the ‘boring’ group in Hartley’s eyes.

“I… ah. I don’t really have many… friends. Like… me. Like you.”

He’s cursing his blubbering incoherency, especially when it turns out his uncertain, half-assed coming-out doesn’t make Hartley feel any kinder towards him.

“So that’s what this is about? You heard I’m gay and you thought we could all go wave rainbow flags over our heads together? I’m not interested,” Hartley snarls and picks up his plate of shrimp risotto. “I would appreciate it if you found someone else to latch on, Mardon. Farewell.”

He stalks away in a huff, leaving Mark sitting there like an idiot, staring after the irritable boy.

All he can really think of is Hartley knows my name.

……………..

In the end, Mark does make friends. Turns out that once all the tycoon kids are off the shelves, the second son of the most influential mob family in the city is good enough. Mark doesn’t really mind: his new friends don’t really talk so much about the future, and at the end of the term, Mark even finds the guts to talk to Shawna about his crush on Hartley.

“That’s awful,” she says and pats his cheek, her eyes big and round and pitiful. “I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

“What?” he mumbles, his stomach churning – he’s been so terrified of people judging him, abandoning him because of who he is, and he’s spent the past weeks trying to persuade himself that Shawna wouldn’t do that. It terrifies him when he faces the possibility that she could-

“You, baby boy, have a terrible taste in guys,” she snorts and pats his cheek again, a little harder, before she leans back and stretches his arms over her head.

“We should find you someone better to moon about. I mean, Rathaway? Seriously? He’s a total nerd… and a dick.”

Mark just shrugs and chuckles, relief washing over him like a tidal wave. They spend the rest of the day secretly texting under their desks about who’s the hottest guy in their year… but Mark’s eyes still shift towards the front row and the styled chocolate-brown hair he would recognize anywhere.

…………………..

Lacrosse isn’t as boring and stupid as Mark thought. He joins the team at the beginning of the sophomore year, mostly ironically; but he ends up liking the physical exertion of it. It helps keep his melancholy moods on the back burner, and he’s better at it than he thought he’d be. With the status of a jock, people start to notice him more: even heirs to their parents’ empires aren’t completely immune to the pecking order of a typical high school environment and Mark finds himself invited to study groups and day trips and parties.

He can’t help but watch Hartley anyway. It’s not even that he needs someone he could talk to about being gay: he’s got Shawna, and a few other friends who don’t really care either way. But no matter how many people he has to talk to, there’s a part of Mark that’s stuck at that cafeteria table in freshman year, watching Hartley leave and desperately wishing he wouldn’t.

Maybe that’s why he reacts without thinking when he sees Hartley one day, surrounded by some of the polo players and hissing at them like a cat backed into the corner. Hartley’s wiping at his mouth, but his chin’s stained red, and Mark’s heart stops for a moment. And then he moves.

“Hey! Let him go!”

The polo players part a little, turn to him and make the predictable stupid jokes about how Mardon’s got a boyfriend now. Hartley reacts to that with viciousness and cutting words, as is his nature, and gets kicked in the stomach for the trouble.

Mark sees red – and in what feels like ten seconds, the polo guys are spitting out vague threats and scampering off, most of them a few bruises richer than they were a minute ago. Mark was right: these private school kids don’t know the first thing about fighting.

Unfortunately, that means that Hartley doesn’t know how to protect himself. He’s still rubbing his knuckles against his mouth, and when Mark grabs his hand to pull it away and see the damage, Hartley hisses and yanks his hand away.

At first, Mark thinks it’s just the guy being contrary for the hell of it, but then he sees tears, annoyed and pained, in Hartley’s eyes and he frowns, reaching for his hand away. He carefully curls his fingers around Hartley’s wrist and the other guy gasps, then bites down on his split lip… then hisses again.

“Let me help,” Mark sighs and Hartley must be a little dizzy, because he sways and his protests are half-assed at best when Mark puts his arm around Hartley’s waist. He’s so slim – it’s like he hasn’t changed since his first day here. It’s only then that Mark physically feels the five inches he’s grown in the past year.

“We have to get you to an emergency room,” he says quietly and Hartley turns his blazing eyes to him:

“Just leave me alone.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you probably need an X-Ray for that hand and you obviously can’t drive.”

It’s hard to argue with that logic, but Hartley doesn’t speak to him all the way to the hospital, just leans back in the seat of Mark’s shiny new Lexus and closes his eyes, face turned away.

……….

Hartley comes out of the emergency room with his hand in a cast. There’s an angry red cut over his bottom lip that’s not bleeding anymore, and he’s pale as death, but then, Hartley probably never gets any sun, so he’s pale all the time.

Mark practically jumps up from his seat, and Hartley raises an eyebrow at him.

“You’re still here.”

Mark shrugs: “It’s not like I could just leave you here, right?”

“You could have. My father’s sending a car to pick me up.”

“Oh.” Mark rubs the back of his neck – he feels like an idiot for waiting, when it’s not like Hartley doesn’t have any other options. He licks his lips and looks around, unsure how to bow out of the awkward situation… and then, there are bony fingers curling in Mark’s crumpled shirt, right over his stomach (which is doing backflips when Mark realizes the fingers are Hartley’s).

“Thanks,” Hartley breathes out, and it sounds like it’s physically painful for him to say it, but it might also be that the painkillers haven’t kicked in yet and he actually is in quite a bit of pain from his hand. Mark gapes at the other boy, and Hartley frowns.

“Don’t you dare think this means anything, Mardon. We’re not friends.”

“Why not?” Mark blurts before he can stop himself. But he genuinely wants to know, so it’s not like he’d take it back even if he could. Not even when Hartley scowls deeper.

“What do you mean, why not? Why do you have to be so obsessed with me?”

“Why do you have to be such a dick to everyone?” Mark grumbles.

“Why shouldn’t I be?!”

“Because I’ve been wanting to ask you out since the first time I saw you and you’re making it really difficult!”

The words hang between them – it’s not exactly deadly silence, since they’re still in a hospital and there’s a lot of bleeping and yelling and rushing in the background, but it does feel like they’re enclosed in a bubble just for the two of them… and the stupid words.

Hartley’s hand falls away from Mark’s shirt, and Mark’s stomach flips again, unpleasantly.

“You-… you’re not my type,” Hartley says, but he stutters and his eyes shift to the side. He could just as well have a neon light over his head blaring ‘I’M LYING.’ It’s not that Mark’s overconfident in his looks, but he knows he’s not exactly a hideous troll. Shawna’s teased him about his perpetually wind-swept hair and his cheekbones often enough for him to know. And Hartley’s pale face gets a distinctly pink tinge when he glares up at Mark again.

“Can you just go away now?”

Mark chuckles.

“Not before you agree to go out with me. One date. Just one. And if you hate it, you can tell me to fuck off afterwards.”

Hartley’s mouth falls open, and he’s awfully quiet for about three seconds – then, he rolls his eyes and groans:

“Fine, Mardon, you win. But you’re paying, and if you take me to a goddamned-“

Mark never learns where Hartley doesn’t want to go for their date, because endorphins rush through his body and roar in his ears and he’s uncontrollable by the time he feels himself leaning in and pressing his mouth against Hartley’s. He tastes like antiseptic and pulls away just a moment later with a hiss of pain because of his split lip, but for the briefest seconds, his mouth moves to accommodate Mark’s, and that’s enough, for now.

“Taking advantage of a person high on painkillers, very noble,” Hartley grumbles, but his face is basically the color of ripe tomatoes, and Mark can’t help but chuckle under his breath as he turns away.

He’s got one date to persuade Hartley that they could work: he’s got a lot of planning to do.