Marc takes Steven to the aquarium on a normal Thursday afternoon.
Steven peers up at a fish–some kind of guppy, apparently–and smiles. His hands are on the glass, soft palms pressed onto the cold surface. He has a smile that appears only when he thinks no one is looking.
Marc looks, though. All the time. He looks at Steven’s tousled hair, his crooked glasses, the small crumb on the corner of his lip from the vegan cookie he demanded to try on their way to the aquarium.
I love you, Marc thinks.
“You’ve got something on your face,” he says instead.
Steven wipes at his lips. His smile drops to something more intimate, something quiet and fragile. It’s an expression reserved for Marc only, and the knowledge drives Marc nearly insane. He wants to capture this expression forever, carve it into his chest. He wants to kiss it until he can feel it on his lips with his eyes closed.
“You’re not hungry?” Steven asks, “It’s half past two already.” He glances down at his watch. “Half past three! Marc, you need to eat."
His arms flail about as he speaks. His actions are so animated. Steven’s always animated, Marc realizes, so alive. Vibrating with life. Filled with hope and wonder and pointless curiosities that keep him up at night.
I love you so much, Marc thinks.
“Okay. Let’s go eat something,” he says instead. His voice comes out too soft.
Steven gives him a look–the one that says without words what Marc is too afraid to say, the look that Marc doesn’t deserve to be given, not from Steven–and grabs his hand.
“You’re alright,” Steven says. It’s not a question.
I love you, Marc thinks.
“Yeah,” he says instead, and hates himself for being such a coward.
*
Glasses have become a permanent feature on Steven’s face. He wears it inside the house and out. He’s gotten a new pair after Marc accidentally sat on his old one. The new pair is rounder than the last. It suits him better. Marc makes sure to tell Steven this fact, and Steven tries and fails to hide a shy little grin.
Aside from the glasses, Steven looks a lot different now. He’s–rounder. Softer. Less eyebags and frowns, more smiles and crinkles. He’s lost the abs, has a soft stomach that Marc sometimes dares to lay his head on. His hair is no longer gelled back every day. His curls sit loose and free on his forehead. He wears sweaters, ridiculously patterned button downs, printed socks.
He looks so different from Marc, distinctly Steven. He doesn’t get bruises from fighting anymore, just paper cuts from the countless books he reads. His fingers are calloused from writing, not climbing cliffs and mountains. He puts on strawberry scented chapstick. He lotions his face after a shower (and sometimes forces Marc to do so, too).
The point is, he’s different. He’s Steven. He’s separate from Marc. They aren’t reflections of each other anymore.
The revelation shakes Marc down to his core. It makes him want to cry out of joy–and he does, at one point. He’s had too much to drink, feels fuzzy and warm, and Steven is sitting across from him explaining the mechanics of a puzzle he saw online.
“--and it’s exactly what I thought it would be, because–Marc, are you alright?” Steven leans forward, eyebrows furrowing together.
That’s not a good look on Steven. Marc puts a thumb between Steven’s brows and rubs.
Steven huffs a small little laugh at that, but the concern doesn’t go away. He reaches out–he always reaches out first, is always the braver one–and puts a soft palm on Marc’s cheek.
“You’re crying,” Steven informs him.
Marc watches as Steven concentrates on wiping away the wetness from his cheek. He watches as Steven looks around for tissues, watches as Steven says something about his speech boring Marc into tears, and thinks that this is love.
I love you, Marc thinks, and he thinks and thinks and he only ever thinks but the words feel so heavy on his tongue. The words feel like shackles, like something that will chain Steven and weigh him down. Steven deserves more than Marc can ever offer. He deserves more than Marc.
So instead, he says, “Oh. Am I?” And his voice sounds pathetically weak but he prays that Steven will just think it’s the alcohol.
Steven frowns at this. His eyes are narrowed as he frowns, makes it clear that he doesn’t think it’s the alcohol. Still, Steven doesn't press. Beautiful, wonderful Steven. He doesn't pry. He's always been like that. Too kind, too understanding.
He tucks Marc into bed, instead. He drags Marc to the one bed they've started to use together in mutual silence and gently ushers him down. He pulls the blanket over Marc’s loose body and Marc feels like a little kid again.
I love you, Marc thinks, but it’s warm, and sleep takes him before he can do anything about it.
*
Marc catches Steven staring at him more frequently as of late. They’re meant to be subtle stares, though, maintained only when Marc isn’t looking. Except Marc is always looking. Therein lies the problem.
Steven stares, Marc stares back. They don’t address this fact. Maybe they’re both scared of breaking whatever reverie they fall into when such occasions arise. Maybe Steven is waiting for Marc to be the one to bring it up in conversation. Maybe Marc is the one waiting instead.
Maybe Marc is a coward. Maybe he knows Steven isn’t waiting–he’s allowing Marc to take his time instead. Maybe he knows Steven is too kind, too patient, and that he will never make Marc say or do anything he doesn’t want–couldn’t dare–to do. Maybe Steven knows Marc is being a coward.
Steven stares at him. Marc stares back.
I love you, Marc thinks, and the moment is so quiet. It’s so quiet he thinks that maybe he’ll be able to say it out loud this time. It’s so lovely and peaceful that the words feel lighter. They feel softer. Like something that will float away and dissolve into air once they leave his mouth. He licks his lips. His fingers tap the table.
He opens his mouth.
Steven’s eyes widen. He leans forward incrementally.
“Steven,” Marc starts, “I–”
The pot on the stove boils over.
Steven curses, Marc jumps up and runs to it. They clean the stove, debate on tossing the pot as it has burned at the bottom, decide to try and salvage it.
They eat. Steven’s eyes never leave Marc’s face.
Marc pretends not to notice. He feels shame prickling at his neck. The words feel heavy again. He thinks that maybe the universe is telling him not to say it, to let Steven remain in a state of freedom, make sure he isn’t chained to Marc. He thinks that maybe he should just stay quiet. Maybe things are fine the way they are. Maybe the only way to ensure that Steven's truly free from Marc and the past is by letting things remain the same.
Maybe he shouldn’t ever bring it up ever again. Maybe he should. Maybe he’s just a coward, like always.
Steven does the dishes. Marc brushes his teeth. He glances over at Steven’s back.
The night is silent and filled with a mantra of maybe, maybe, maybe.
*
It’s Steven who ends up bringing it up. It’s always Steven. He’s always been braver.
He brings it up at night, because both of them can’t sleep these days. He brings it up squished next to Marc on their tiny couch. Some shitty romcom is playing in the background. Marc is shovelling caramelized popcorn into his mouth.
Steven puts his hand on Marc’s lap. Marc snaps his head to face him.
“What’s up buddy?” Marc asks. He notices the look of trepidation on Steven’s face. He hesitates for just a second, then carefully places his hand upon Steven’s.
“You have something to say to me, yeah?” Steven says it like a statement, not a question.
Marc blinks. He smiles–or tries to. “What, to stop eating my leftovers?” Marc replies.
“You’ve been awfully quiet these days," Steven says, ignoring Marc’s pathetic attempt at dodging the question. “Not that you’re awfully loud usually, but you’ve been–you’re different. You keep looking at me. Something’s going on. I don’t like not knowing what’s going on.”
Guilt. It pricks at Marc’s skin, crawls under and stays. It’s been there since Steven first opened his eyes. Since Steven woke up with a broken jaw, in the middle of the mountains, about to be shot down. It’s been there since Steven fell off of that boat. It’s been there since they woke up, separated, alone with their own thoughts. It’s been there since Marc started to look at Steven, and since Steven started to look back.
Marc’s a coward. He wants to be honest. He wants to…he doesn’t know. Shit. He attempts to say something. He fails. He tries again, fails a second time.
Steven shakes his head, a tiny little movement, and shifts his body so he’s facing Marc entirely. Steven puts his soft and warm hands on Marc’s face. He runs a thumb under Marc’s eyes. He looks concerned. Worried. There’s that little crease between his brows again.
“You’ve been far away,” Steven whispers. “When have you last slept? You’re being mean to yourself. Why are you doing that? What’s going on?”
And what can Marc say to that? Does Marc tell Steven that he’s been so happy–too happy–that Steven is simply here? Alive and living? Does he tell Steven that he feels guilt because of this happiness? That Marc loves Steven so much it threatens to engulf him? That Marc thinks Steven deserves better than him, better than anything the world has to offer, but still wants Steven to himself? That he can’t bear the thought of Steven leaving him, but still wants him to?
He loves Steven so much it makes him feel sick sometimes. He knows–shit, he knows–that Steven loves him too, but he doesn’t ever want Steven to admit it. He wants Steven to forget about Marc and leave, get away from him and live out the rest of his life with someone he deserves–but that’s not true, is it?
No, it’s not.
Because in reality, Marc wants Steven to stay. He wants to say the words out loud, put a stamp on it, and make sure Steven stays with him until the end of time.
How can he ever say that, though? Shit, what does he say? What is he supposed to say? What can Marc say to make Steven stay? What can he say to make Steven leave?
He’s a coward. He’s known this about himself since before all came to be. He’s a coward, a selfish one at that. He isn’t being fair to Steven. He isn’t being honest. Haven’t they had enough with lies? With secrets?
Steven keeps staring at him. His thumb keeps stroking his cheek. He stares at him, with that expression he reserves only for Marc, with thousands of questions in his eyes and millions of unspoken thoughts.
I love you, Marc thinks, I love you so much. I want you to stay with me forever. I want to hold you tight and never let go. You deserve better. I want to be better. I want me to be something you deserve. I want nothing but you, you, you. It’s always been you.
Steven stares, and–fuck this, Fuck this.
“I love you,” Marc says. Out loud. “I’ve been thinking about that for a while. Didn’t know how to say it. That’s why I was being weird.”
Silence follows, but Marc oddly doesn’t feel afraid. Maybe it’s because Steven’s lips are parted slightly, eyes widened. Widened in the way they do when Steven encounters something delightful.
Moonlight enters the flat through their curtains. It illuminates Steven and makes him seem ethereal. Vaguely, Marc is reminded of Konshu, a name he hasn’t thought of in a while.
“You love me.” Steven mouths the word “love” again, to himself, like he’s never heard of it before. Like he can’t believe Marc has actually said those words, out loud, to him. “In–what, in what way? In a–”
“Steven.”
Steven falls silent, once again.
“Steven, I don’t–I want you to do whatever you want. I want you to be free of Konshu, of the past, of–” me, I want you to be free of me– “Of everything. That’s what I’ve been thinking. I've been thinking that you deserve to walk away. You deserve more. And I’ve also been thinking that I love you.”
Marc isn’t making any sense. He’s rambling now. His heart is beating out of his chest, and it feels like the Duat all over again. He’s baring himself to Steven, with only the gods watching. He’s torn his heart out and left it sitting on Steven’s soft palms.
He wants Steven to crush it, shove Marc away and leave. He wants Steven to cradle it to his chest and keep it there.
Then, Steven, always Steven, it’s always going to be Steven, whispers, “Tell me I’m understanding correctly. I’m not misunderstanding. You’re not lying, you’re not being–not being nice. Tell me.”
And Marc kisses Steven that night.
He kisses Steven, and Steven kisses back. And Steven says, “I love you,” with such conviction it startles Marc, and he repeats it again when Marc starts to shake. He repeats it again as Marc cries. He repeats it as Marc apologizes–for what, exactly, even Marc can’t really put into words–and repeats it again as Marc calms down.
“I love you,” Marc manages to squeeze past his tightened throat, and Steven smiles. He’s beaming, like he’s been liberated, like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And maybe Marc has put a curse onto Steven now that he’s said it. Maybe he’s shackled Steven into staying, chained to Marc, unable to leave.
But Steven smiles so bright. It's blinding. He kisses Marc again. He draws back and he’s still smiling.
“I love you,” Marc murmurs. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about. And–I don’t want you to–”
“I’m not leaving,” Steven says, “and it’s not because I feel obligated to stay. I want to stay.” He leans forward, forces Marc to look into his eyes.
Beautiful Steven. Of course he knows what to say to Marc, knows how to plant hope into his veins. Steven knows Marc better than he knows himself.
“You hear that? I’m staying because I want to. Because I love you, and I’m happy. I’ve never been happier.”
And what is Marc supposed to say to that?
*
Marc takes Steven to a museum on a random Tuesday afternoon.
Steven peers into a butterfly exhibit–Marc can’t be bothered to memorize all of the names–and smiles. His hands are on the glass, soft palms pressed onto the cold surface. He has a smile that appears only when he thinks no one is looking.
Marc looks, though. All the time. He looks at Steven’s crumpled jacket, at his ridiculously colorful socks, at the gold band snuggly wrapped around his finger.
I love you, Marc thinks.
“I love you” he says, “so much, but you gotta do something about those socks, man.”
Steven lectures Marc about the symbolic meaning behind the colors on his ridiculous socks as they walk throughout the museum. He tells Marc that he ought to wear more colorful clothing himself. He talks, and Marc listens.
At one point, Steven reaches for Marc’s hand. Marc grabs his. They walk hand-in-hand.
I love you, Marc thinks, and squeezes Steven’s hand.
Steven smiles at him, almost shy. “I love you too,” he says, “but I am being absolutely serious when I say that you need more color in your wardrobe.” And he squeezes back.
It feels like coming home.