RosyLights Posted December 19, 2022 Share Posted December 19, 2022 Oh wow, I loved this part! I can't wait to see what happens next! Link to comment
Dye Posted December 20, 2022 Share Posted December 20, 2022 I haven't seen a fic that's captivated me this much here in such a long time, it's incredible 💖💖💖 Link to comment
treehouse Posted December 21, 2022 Author Share Posted December 21, 2022 Hello hello! I have three things to say before I get to the story. First and foremost: thank you once again for all your kind words and wonderful comments! I’m so, so thrilled you’ve enjoyed reading this — writing it has been a delight. Secondly: this is the last chapter of this tale, but, wildly enough, it’s not because I’m done with Mark and Nate! It’s because this part of their story wants to end here, and the next part wants to be… well… another story?? I’ve already started working on it, and I will swing back and drop a link to the new thread here once the first part goes up. Finally: it has come to my attention that I have accidentally given Nate’s niece the name Ramona AND the name Jillian within this narrative — these are the downsides of doing your own editing and being too new to go back and change posts 😂 I’m going to go with Ramona since it was first, and when I can I’ll go back and change any instances of Jillian. Apologies for any confusion. Okay that’s all, thanks again, see you real soon, TH CHAPTER FIVE Mark spends the next few hours in an oddly productive haze, floating from task to task without really paying attention to any of them. He gets the clothes out of the garden shed and puts them in his dry cleaning bag; he takes a shower; he eats a late lunch, barely tasting the food, but knowing he’ll get a headache if he skips the meal entirely. He keeps stopping in the middle of the room to just — smile, or even laugh, the brilliant surreality of it all washing over him again. He keeps repeating the facts to himself, as if to remind himself that they’re true: he found the guy from the elevator; they’re going out next week; they almost kissed; he sneezed so many times that Mark lost count, again; he’s funny and smart and kind and perfect. And to top it all off, he seems nearly as into Mark is into him, which is the most incredible, impossible thing of all. Feeling a bit like he’s back in high school and just not caring that much, he texts Nell. MARK KAPLAN: NELL!!! NELL CARTWRIGHT: ?????MARK KAPLAN: someone answered the flier and came to look at the garage and IT!!! WAS!!! HIM!!!!!NELL CARTWRIGHT: What??NELL CARTWRIGHT: OMGNELL CARTWRIGHT: Are you seriousMARK KAPLAN: YES!!!!!!!!!NELL CARTWRIGHT: OMG!!!NELL CARTWRIGHT: At a cookie party with A but I want ALL the details later MARK KAPLAN: highlights — his name is nate and we’re going out next week and i take back everything i said about the flier being a stupid idea. you are a genius and a scholar and i am forever humbled NELL CARTWRIGHT: LOL NELL CARTWRIGHT: He broke your brain huh 😂MARK KAPLAN: oh shut up and go eat cookiesNELL CARTWRIGHT: Knew you were still in there somewhere 😉 Mark’s trying to scowl down at his phone and finding it worryingly difficult when the doorbell rings. He looks up, surprised — the snow’s really coming down now — but he stands and walks to the foyer anyway, peeking out his front window. A tall, broad-shouldered woman with expressive features and a ponytail of thick, dark hair is standing on his porch, twirling a set of keys on one finger. Behind her, now pulling out of Mark’s driveway, is the pickup truck that must have dropped her off, printed with the words CLEAN DAY JUNK REMOVAL: YOU CALL, WE HAUL. Mark opens the door. “Hi,” he says, and then, because she could hardly be anyone else, adds, “You… must be Nate’s sister. Sam, right?” “Sam I am,” she agrees, and then winces dramatically, putting a hand to her temple. “Jesus, forget I said that — I have kids, and believe me when I tell you, the Dr. Seuss really seeps into your fucking soul after a while.” “Forget you said what?” Mark asks, innocently looking at his nails. Sam snorts out a brief laugh, one that sounds almost against her will, before she says, “Right, well. You’re Mark, yeah?” When he nods, she says, “Great. I’m here to pick up my idiot brother’s car before it gets plowed in.” Mark considers this for a second. It’s a reasonable enough thing for her to be doing — smart, even, and solving for a problem Mark probably should have thought about himself — but if he doesn’t miss his guess, those are Nate’s keys Sam’s spinning around on her finger. The Jeep is parked on the street; she could just take it, if the car was all she wanted. She didn’t have to knock. “Okay. And?” Mark says, raising an eyebrow. Sam gives him an assessing look. Then, slowly, she says, “Well, I… might’ve heard something about a garage that needs cleaning. Only bits and pieces, of course — Nate wasn’t exactly at his most coherent. Seemed like something out there really did a number on him.” “Yeah, all the dust definitely did not agree with him. I’m kind of impressed he stayed awake long enough to tell you about it,” Mark admits. “He was pretty wiped out when I dropped him off, poor guy.” “Hmm,” Sam says, narrowing her eyes. “Well, I never pass up a good piece of business, so. I thought I’d see if I could take a look, while I’m here.” Mark considers this. He’s sure he’s not getting the full truth from Sam about what she’s doing here, but he does want to do whatever he can to get those rats evicted ASAP. He steps aside and says, “Look, why don’t you come in? It’s cold out there, and it’ll take me a minute to get my boots on. Then I can take you out to see the garage, although, I have to warn you, I’m definitely not going back in myself; I can’t believe Nate talked me into it in the first place. You want some coffee or something?” “I’m okay, but thanks — I appreciate it,” Sam says, stepping inside and shutting the door. She offers him a thin smile; it’s a tighter, more guarded expression than any Mark’s seen on her brother’s face. “Shoes on or off?” “Oh, on is fine; I won’t be long,” Mark says. He sits down on the bench next to his coat rack to switch his slippers for the sherpa-lined boots he wears when there’s more than an inch of snow on the ground, and keeps an eye on Sam as she looks around. Mark’s amused to note that she has a similar approach to Nate’s, scanning the whole room, gaze lingering a little longer on the art than anything else. When her eyes light upon a framed Roger Raccoon illustration — not the one Nate noticed, but a piece that ran one of the actual books — she walks over to take a closer look. After a moment she whistles and says, “Damn. So he was serious about that. You illustrated these?” “The Roger Raccoon books? Yeah,” Mark says, shrugging and keeping his face turned down towards his boots so she won’t see him blush. “I heard that your daughter likes them, which, I have to say, is pretty cool for me. I don’t spend a lot of time with kids; it’s rare I come across a fan. Ramona, right?” “Yeah,” Sam says, her voice warming a fraction. “She loves them; I swear she thinks she’s a raccoon herself half the time. Nate told you her name?” “He did,” says Mark, though he only holds back, No, I divined it, by the skin of his teeth. This is Nate’s sister; it’s in Mark’s best interest to play nice. “He said she’s six, and that her brother — Chris, wasn’t it? — is four.” “And you remembered,” Sam says thoughtfully, and adds, as if to herself, “Interesting.” “Am I being graded?” Mark asks with slightly forced cheer, fighting his strong instinct to say something more prickly. Boots laced, he stands, shrugs on a coat, grabs his cane, and joins Sam in front of the illustration. “Because I can prepare a musical number, if you give me a few minutes and don’t mind show tunes.” This earns another brief and quickly smothered snort of laughter from Sam. “No song or dance necessary. I’m just… trying to get a sense of you, I guess.” “Ah,” says Mark. “I see.” In spite of — honestly, because of — her standoffish behavior, he finds he’s starting to like Nate’s less friendly sister. She’s clearly a no-nonsense, slow to trust sort of person, and Mark can appreciate those qualities. He looks at the illustration, a nervous and slightly haggard-looking Roger Raccoon trying to balance an enormous stack of plates, cups, and other household supplies, and decides to offer up some honesty. “Well, if you’re looking to get to know me — I put this one up because it might as well be a self portrait. Come on; I’ll show you the garage.” Sam nods, looking a little baffled by him, but Mark’s so used to causing that expression to appear on people’s faces that he hardly notices. She follows him silently through the living room, into the kitchen, and out the back door, and seems to relax slightly once they’re outside. Observing the size of the yard, she says, “Nice piece of property you’ve got here. Cool house, too. You lived here long?” “Here in this house? A little over four years,” Mark says. “Here in this town, almost twelve — I came for art school and never really left. You guys grew up here, right? That’s what Nate said.” “We… did, yeah,” Sam says slowly. “What else did Nate tell you?” “Oh, not a ton,” Mark says, waving a hand. “We didn’t have that much time to get into shit, between his allergies and everything. He said you guys have a younger brother, Bart, who works for a wildlife magazine? And that your dad is a cheesemonger, and that he studied mechanical engineering in college — Nate, I mean, not your dad. Oh, and that he’s a carpenter in his spare time! God, I can’t believe I forgot to ask him more about that. What else — I guess just that he used to be really into like, outdoor sports? Which admittedly I know fuck all about, but still: interesting.” Mark pauses, and admits, “I mean, technically we talked about that last part on the elevator like, months ago, but it’s information he gave me, so I’m counting it.” “R…ight,” Sam says. Her tone has shifted from interrogatory to thoughtful, and she doesn’t say anything else as they walk across the yard. Mark, normally driven to fill awkward silences with talking, just trudges through the deepening snow next to her — it’s easier to be quiet than usual, with so many fresh memories of Nate to luxuriate in. Anyway, he has to pay attention to where he’s walking; this is really not a moment where he wants to be caught falling on his ass in the snow. When they reach the garage, Mark pulls up on the door handle to trigger the spring lift, then takes a sharp step back in case any rats burst out. When they don’t, he releases a sigh of relief and says, “Well, here it is. It looks… a lot worse than it did earlier, actually, which is really saying something. There was sort of a… collapse, at one point.” “Oh, Nate, you incredible fucking moron,” Sam says, quietly and clearly to herself, as she peers into the dusty gloom of the garage and shakes her head. To Mark, she says, “Just so you know, I’d never send an employee into a space like this without a mask, even if they didn’t have any allergies. It’s probably an OSHA violation, for one thing, and for another, it’s just basic common sense. I don’t know what the hell my brother was thinking.” “I think he was just curious, and trying to be helpful,” Mark says with a shrug. He bites back the urge to take offense at her referring to Nate as a moron, on the grounds that he’s known Nate a few hours and she’s known him since birth, so she can probably go ahead and call him whatever she wants. Still, he can’t resist adding, “And, in his defense, he was very sure he wasn’t allergic to dust. I mean, and also very wrong, obviously, but I do think he really believed it.” “Of course he did,” Sam says with a sigh. She pulls a sturdy mask out of her jacket pocket, secures it over her nose and mouth, and says, “I’m just going to take a look, all right? Won’t be a minute.” “Sure,” Mark says. Eager to take his weight off his knee, he walks over to his car, leans up against the hood, and spends a pleasant few minutes awash in memories of Nate leaning against the same spot, lost in his desperate, overwhelming sneezes. The only thing that breaks this reverie is the occasional grunt, crunch, or, “Jesus Christ,” coming from the garage. After about ten minutes, Sam reappears under the door, takes her mask off, shakes her head, and says, “Well, that’s a rat infested black hole if ever I’ve seen one.” “That’s what Nate said.” Mark sighs. “Did he tell you all the like… backstory? I don’t want you thinking I made it that way; I doubt your opinion of me would ever recover.” “He said something about small claims court?” Sam says, and wrinkles her nose. “I have to admit, I didn’t catch all of it. He was a little,” she gestures ruefully at her face, as if to encompass the entirety of Nate’s allergies. “It doesn’t make him the easiest to understand.” “Yeah, I’m familiar,” Mark says, although he awards himself a mental point; he hasn’t had any trouble understanding Nate, no matter how congested and sneezy he’s gotten. Quickly, Mark runs Sam through The Saga of The Garage, to which she responds with a whistle and a, “Damn, that sucks.” “Yeah, not the best year of my life,” Mark says with a shrug, feeling a little raw after talking about it all twice in one day, “but sometimes that’s how it goes, right?” “Yeah,” Sam says. “Sometimes it is.” She opens her mouth as if to say something more, but gets distracted — holding one foot in the air and looking down at the spot where she just stepped, she says, “Uh, sorry, but what the hell is that?” Mark gets up and crosses over to her, letting out only a small groan of agony as he squats down to inspect the oddly shaped, pale blue item. After a second, he starts to laugh. “Oh my god, it’s, uh… so I gave Nate a handkerchief? For like. Presumably obvious reasons? And he ended up throwing it on the ground — long story — anyway, I forgot it was out here, and I think it fucking froze solid.” He pokes at it, still laughing, and then picks it up, stands with quite a bit of help from his cane, and deposits the frozen lump of fabric on the hood of his car, where he won’t forget about it when he goes inside. “Weird question, but: could you maybe… not tell Nate about this? He’d be so mortified he forgot about it, and I’d rather spare him that today. I kind of think he’s been through enough; he did get his ass handed to him by a garage.” Sam’s staring at him openly now, her hands on her hips. Mark can’t begin to parse her expression, and he doesn’t bother to try that hard; she seems like the sort of person who will tell him what’s on her mind eventually. After a few seconds, quietly, she says, “I… all right. He won’t hear about it from me.” “Thanks,” Mark says, smiling at her. Then, because it’s cold out here and he’s getting impatient, he adds, “Did you want to like — give me a quote, maybe? Nate said it’d probably be about $700?” “Actually — wait, hold on, he said seven hundred?” Sam demands. “Oh my god, that is… just… unbelievable. Do you have brothers, Mark?” “Four,” Mark sighs, transported briefly but utterly back into the middle of a long, trying conversation about sports at Rosh Hashanah dinner. “Four brothers, each of them younger and straighter than the last. It’s the great tragedy of my life.” This wins a real laugh from Sam, one she doesn’t bother to hide. “Four? Shit, that’s rough. I’m up to my ears with two; half the time they’re worse than the kids.” “Two of mine are twins,” Mark says gloomily. “And they’re both dentists. Both of them.” He shudders, only partially for effect, and adds, “Last time I saw them they made me golf.” Sam laughs again, and then her expression changes, hardening into one of careful thought. After a second, she crosses her arms over her chest, nods, and, appearing to come to some internal decision, says, “Look — I didn’t just come over here about the garage.” “No?” Mark says, as though he hasn’t been aware of this all along. “Was there something else, then?” Sam takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and says, “The thing is, my brother — I mean, he drives me insane, don’t get me wrong — but aside from his habit of criminally under-quoting potential clients, he’s probably the best person I know. He cares about people, you know? And not just the people who are really in his life; I swear to god he buys holiday gifts for the baristas at his regular coffee shop, and his mail carrier, and the staff at the hardware store.” “Does he really?” Mark says, before he can help himself. It comes out horrifyingly, humiliatingly besotted, and he hastily clears his throat and adds, “I mean, uh. That’s. Wow. I feel… normal about that. Super, uh. Super normal.” “Clearly,” Sam says, the corners of her mouth twitching. “And listen, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing — it’s a good thing, honestly. It is! But, it’s just… Nate genuinely believes that most people are good. That more or less everyone else is doing their best for each other, all the time, the way that he is. Which, I mean, sure, probably some of them are, but a lot of people are… “ Ah, Mark thinks, finally understanding what she’s doing here. “The absolute living worst?” he suggests brightly. “Not worthy of the benefit of Nate’s doubt? Garbage?” Sam smiles, but it’s not a happy one. “Exactly.” “Listen, I can’t promise you I’m not garbage,” Mark says, with a little wince. “For one thing, I think people who are garbage don’t usually like, self-identify that way? Meaning I’m not a reliable witness, probably. And anyway, I’m one little inconvenience away from snapping and reverting into goblin mode basically all the time, so. Jury’s out.“ “Sorry, but what exactly is… goblin mode?” Sam says, sounding somewhere between amusement and concern. “Oh, you know, goblin mode,” Mark says, waving a hand. “The old ‘I haven’t gotten dressed or left the house in a week, I’ve eaten my weight in pizza, and I drew seventeen pages of an illustration concept that isn’t the one I’m on deadline for’ blues. It’s either a hazard of the industry I’m in or my personality; I’ve never been able to work out which.” “Ah,” Sam says, covering her mouth with her hand. Her tone has definitely drifted into amusement now. “Goblin mode. Got it.” “Anyway,” Mark says, knowing that, as always, he’s said too much, “my point was — I can’t promise I’m not garbage, but I can promise that I’m not like, looking to take advantage of Nate’s good nature or anything. He’s, uh. He’s really — I’m — I wouldn’t want to — god, I like him, okay?” He looks down at his boots, sure his face is bright red. “Yeah, no, I’m… getting that,” Sam says, sounding even more entertained than before. “I wouldn’t have said anything, otherwise. But Nate’s had a really bad year — a really bad eighteen months, to be honest with you — and then suddenly he comes over to the house babbling about something that sounded like a goddamn Hallmark movie. I just… I wanted to see what I was in for. I couldn’t stand to watch him get pummeled again, you know? At least not without the chance to brace myself. God knows it’s not like there’s anything I could do to stop it; he never listens to me on stuff like that.” “I did get the sense that maybe some things have been… kind of fucked up for him recently, yeah,” Mark says carefully. “But I’d rather hear about that from Nate, if it’s all the same to you. I’m not looking to like… know things he doesn’t know I know, you know?” He winces and adds, “Okay, bad sentence, but you get what I’m saying.” “That’s… ” Sam says, and then she grins. Mark blinks; it’s Nate’s grin, and strange to see on another face. “Good. That’s good; good for you.” She looks at him for another moment and then says, “You’re — not what I was expecting. At all. I’m sorry if I was a little, uh. Cold and rude.” Mark shrugs, lifting an eyebrow. “You weren’t, not really. Anyway, don’t let my interest in your brother convince you I’m not a fan of cold and rude. I’m usually all about cold and rude; Nate’s the exception, not the rule.” “Noted,” Sam says, smiling again. “Well, listen, about this garage — “ “I’m happy to pay whatever the real price is,” Mark says quickly. “I’m not going to hold you to what Nate said, if he was lowballing it.” Sam laughs. “Well, he definitely was — I’d have said more like $1500, especially since it’s going to take some brickwork to secure the back wall — but actually, I was going to offer to hold to his original quote. Call it a favor; seems like it might be useful to have you owe me one.” “Ooh, no, I don’t work like that,” Mark says, holding up a hand. “I’m happy to do you a favor, but I don’t like having a nebulous obligation hanging over my head — too many variables. Let me think.” He considers for a moment, and then says, “Okay, I actually think I can do two things for you, but we have to go back inside for one of them.” Sam nods as Mark says this, seeming to relate to his dislike for unpaid debts, and snorts with laughter when he picks the frozen handkerchief up off the car. “Fair enough; inside it is. You said that’s for one thing you can do for me — what’s the other?” “So I work for a frozen foods company,” Mark says, as they start towards the house. “As my day job, since illustration isn’t always the most, like, stable source of income. They’re called Finest Frozen Foods?” “No kidding? My kids practically live on their chicken nuggets.” Sam winces, and adds, “Actually, we all do. They’re one of the few things my husband can cook.” “I don’t think you guys are the only ones with a freezer full of our stuff,” Mark says with a little smile. “There’s been a big bump in sales this year, and the company is expanding — they’re in the middle of buying three abandoned warehouses to convert to new production facilities. The deal probably won’t be finalized until January, but I hear all three properties are a fucking mess. They’ll need clearing out. I’m not the decision-maker on who gets the job or anything, but I can put in a good word, and show them some before and after shots of the garage, or your website, or whatever. If nothing else I can get you a meeting, and if I know my bosses, they’ll bite; they love a nice, easy answer.” Sam’s eyebrows have climbed nearly to her hairline in listening to this. She sounds borderline gleeful as she says, “Are you serious? Listen — you get me a sweet piece of business like that and I’ll straight up comp your garage. Call it a finder’s fee. Corporate jobs like that are a gold mine, and usually end up paying their costs off twice in referrals.” “I’ll bring it up with my boss on Monday,” Mark promises. “Thanks,” Sam says, favoring him with another huge grin as they approach the back door. “Don’t mention it,” he says easily, and lets them both back into the house. He drops the frozen hanky in the sink to thaw and then leads Sam into his comfortable but cluttered office. “Sorry about the mess — I just need a second to find it.” Mark peeks one by one into the various boxes stacked on his storage shelves, trying to remember which one’s housing his target, until: “Aha! Here they are — take this one.” He pulls out one of the dozens of slim volumes held within the box and holds it out to her. “Oh my god. Is this the next Roger Raccoon book?” Sam demands, staring at it with wide eyes as she takes it from him. “The one that comes out in February, yeah,” Mark says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Roger Raccoon’s Family Vacation. Technically I’m supposed to be signing those and then sending them on for Kate — the author — to sign, but whatever. I’ll just say one got lost, or I spilled coffee on it, or something. So long as Ramona doesn’t post any pictures of it to the internet between now and Valentine’s Day, it’s yours.” “She is going to flip out,” Sam says, with the excited, bordering-on-manic fervor of a good parent who has just acquired the best possible Christmas gift for one of their children. “Thank you so much, seriously. You have no idea how happy this is going to make her. I’m definitely comping your garage — “ “You really don’t have to — “ “It’s done,” Sam says firmly, “so don’t argue with me. How’s this Thursday looking for you? I think that’s the soonest I could get a crew out.” “Thursday? Thursday’s great; I thought I was going to have to wait until January,” Mark says, elated. They spend a few minutes hammering out details and exchanging contact information, and then Sam says, “All right, I should be getting back before Nate’s car really does get plowed in. It was nice meeting you, Mark. Thanks again for the book.” “My pleasure,” Mark says, smiling. “You’ll be okay in the snow?” Sam laughs. “In the Wrangler? Yeah, absolutely. Nate uses it to plow our whole street out at least a few times every winter; it can definitely handle this.” Mark nods and walks her over to the door. Just before she steps outside, Sam looks down at the cover of the book in her hand, clears her throat, and says, “Our mother was an artist, you know. Not — I mean, not like this, not professionally, but. She painted, and sketched, and drew little comics to pack in our lunches sometimes.” Sam taps the cover of the book, where Roger Raccoon is depicted on a beach, surrounded by other raccoons who are clearly his family. “She’d have gotten a kick out of this; I think about her whenever I read one of these books to the kids. Whimsical realism was right in her strike zone.” “Oh,” Mark says, touched but not at all sure how to reply, especially to the baseball metaphor. “That’s… I’m flattered. Thank you. And I’m sorry for your loss; she sounds like she was a really cool person.” Sam shrugs, a little pained. “Thank you. She was.” Then she smiles, and adds, “Anyway, seriously — thanks for everything, and I’ll see you next week. Have a good night, okay?” “You too,” Mark says. He watches her from the door frame for a minute, waving a final goodbye when she reaches the car, before shutting the door behind her. - What little remains of the afternoon slides into evening as Mark processes his conversation with Sam. He thinks, overall, that he feels good about it — he probably made an ass of himself a few times, but that was likely inevitable, and he seemed to win her over in the end. Plus, he’d liked her, though obviously not in the same way he likes Nate. Still, it’s rare enough to be notable, and it’ll make things that much easier if everything continues to go well. God, Mark hopes everything continues to go well. Full of so much fresh knowledge and so many new emotions, it feels like it’s been weeks since he woke up this morning, as though he’s a different person than he was when he got out of bed. He’s lighter on his feet than the Mark who pulled on his sweater in the weak dawn light, less nervous and more optimistic than the Mark who made his coffee. It’s unnerving, but not in a bad way, although admittedly Mark’s not sure he could feel bad about anything right now. Crossing into his kitchen, his eyes light on the framed concept piece Nate noticed this morning, the one that secured him the Roger Raccoon series. Any day can be a day your life changes, he thinks, and laughs, a rich, pleased chuckle he’s never heard himself produce before. He hadn’t known — he’d meant that professionally more than anything, a marker of a tipping point in his career to remind him there might be others. He’d never really thought about the fact that it could be true like this, on an intimate, personal level. In every other relationship Mark’s ever been in, everyone involved had crept hesitantly into things and was always right on the edge of abandoning the whole concept, like early-season beachgoers attempting to brave the icy ocean. He’d thought, until today, that that’s just what dating was like. Mark doesn’t usually like surprises, but he has to admit it: this one is pretty nice. Too giddy to really be hungry, he starts making dinner out of habit. He puts on some music, using his headphones out of a total inability to stop following roommate courtesy rules even after years of living alone, and starts browning chicken and chopping vegetables. He’s just digging a can of coconut milk out of the pantry when the song playing in his ear switches to his ringtone; he pulls out his phone and breaks into a huge grin when he sees that it’s Nate. “Hey!” Mark says, too enthusiastic, in greeting. “Hey, yourself,” Nate says; his tone is warm, and slightly amused. “Not too early for me to call, then?” “I mean, if you’re going to go by the letter of the law, I think you’re supposed to torture me with mixed signals for a few weeks,” Mark admits. “But I’m down to skip that bit if you are.” “God, let’s, please. I’m hopeless at that kind of thing,” Nate says. “You either like someone or you don’t, right? Why mess around?” “I think some people enjoy the messing around,” Mark says, shrugging even though Nate can’t see him. “The game, or the chase, or whatever. Couldn’t be me — it stresses me the fuck out, personally — but that’s what I hear.” “Well, the last thing I’d want to be is a source of stress,” Nate says. His voice is low and husky, still rasping a little from his allergy attack, and hanging onto the faintest hint of congestion; it makes Mark shiver in delight, which thankfully is only witnessed by his pasta and canned beans. “So let’s forget about the mixed signals, yeah? It’s not like I’d be any good at pretending I’m not into you, anyway.” “Well, I — same,” Mark says, pink-cheeked and dreadfully pleased. “Obviously.” “Glad to hear it,” Nate says. He sounds like he’s smiling, and, not proud of it even as he does it, Mark takes a moment to lean against his pantry door, clutching the can of coconut milk to his chest like some kind of overwrought Victorian maiden, before he gets a handle on himself and walks back over to the stove. “Speaking of stress,” Mark says, dumping the chopped vegetables into a bowl, “how are you feeling? You sound a lot better, if you don’t mind my saying so.” “I feel a lot better,” Nate says, somewhat sheepishly. “I mean, you know, except for my regret about ruining our good time — “ “Excuse you, I did have a good time,” Mark says, flipping the chicken and hissing when he’s hit with a tiny splatter of hot oil. “Sorry about any weird sounds, by the way — I’m cooking — but like, shut up, dude, you didn’t ruin anything. I mean, it didn’t seem like it was a lot of fun for you — “ “It was!” Nate says quickly. “Or, I mean — the allergy stuff was kind of a nightmare, but hanging out with you was great. Even during the worst of the attack, honestly; people normally get so weird about it. But you were just… kind and helpful. Again.” “Basic decency is not rocket science,” Mark points out, not for the first time. “But I know what you mean. I’m not sure what’s worse; people pretending it isn’t happening, or the people who think it’s hilarious.” Nate groans. “God, the people who think it’s hilarious drive me up the wall. I mean, kids are fine — they’re just children, and there’s nothing malicious about it — but I hate that shit from grown adults. The scolds, too; they’re the worst, for my money.” “Oh, yeah,” Mark says, wincing. “You mean those assholes who are all, ‘Stop it,’ or ‘That’s disgusting, this is a public place,’ or whatever? I swear I block them out whenever I’m not actively dealing with one — I think my brain is trying to protect me from having a rage-induced aneurysm. Like, don’t they think that if I could stop, I fucking would?” “Exactly!” Nate says. “And then you’re even more self-conscious about it, in addition to being in hell — “ “Right! And they never just move away, like a normal person,” Mark complains. “Like, they’re not the one in the middle of sneezing their head off or hacking up a lung or whatever, they have freedom of movement, but do they use it? Never! It’s always the lady who’s riding to the stop past yours on the bus, or the guy behind you in a long line, and you’re fucking stuck with them.” Nate laughs, but he sounds sympathetic when he says, “You must get some seriously gnarly colds, Mark. Nobody ever knows what I’m talking about when I bitch about this; it’s blank stares and grimaces all the way down.” “The gnarliest,” Mark admits, on a sigh. “I can catch an office bug that gives everyone else a few days of the sniffles and turn it into a multi-week ordeal; it’s the world’s worst talent. But there’s no way around it other than being a total shut-in, so. It is what it is, right?” “Yeah,” Nate says, with a sigh of his own. “It’s not quite the same, obviously, but god knows I’d be spared a lot of misery if I just put myself on house arrest from March until November. Shame it’s not worth the price of being on house arrest from March until November.” He pauses, and then, in a slightly shaky voice, says, “God, speaking of which — M-Mark, hold on a s-sec, okay?” “Sure,” Mark says, all his senses on high alert. He hears the clatter of the phone being put down, and then a soft rustling noise, like a handkerchief being shaken out. Then, slightly muted by Nate’s distance from the phone but still perfectly audible, Mark hears: “Hehhhh-heEesSSHoo! HESHOO! Ehhh-eHhhHh-EHHHSHIEW!” A pause, and then: “EHHSHIEW! ETCHOO, ETCHOO, ETCHOO, EHHHTCHOO! HuhHh… hUhhH…. HUHHHH…. HUHHHHEHHSHIEW! Ugh.” There’s the honk of a nose blow, and then another clatter, before Nate says, “Okay, sorry, I’m back.” “Bless you,” Mark says, and then, pleased that it comes out sounding gently concerned as opposed to thrilled, adds, “Still going, huh?” “Yeah,” Nate says, and Mark can almost hear him shrug. “It’s nothing like as bad as it was, but I’ll probably be a little sneezy for the next few days. No big deal.” “For the next few days?” Mark says; the guilt in his voice is genuine this time. “Nate, I’m so sorry — I’d never have asked you to go anywhere near that garage if I’d realized.” “Oh, stop, it’s my own fault,” Nate says easily. “You wanted to stay in the house. And anyway, it’s like you said — it is what it is, right?” “Well, sure, but I don’t think it’s great form to poison a guy before your first date.” Nate laughs. “You didn’t poison me, Mark; it’s fine, I promise. It’s not like that was even the worst allergy attack I’ve ever had.” “Really?” Mark says, as he removes the chicken from the pot and adds some diced onions. “I’m a little afraid to ask, but — what was the worst one?” “Oh, the first one, for sure,” Nate says immediately, not even needing a moment to think about it. “Some of my friends and I… we had this annual tradition, where we’d take a camping trip and try to be in the woods for the first day that really felt like spring. It didn’t always work; there’s only so much you can plan for something like that, even if you watch the weather like a hawk. Plus, I mean, jobs, schedules, people’s kids — whatever. It was a moving target. But when it did work…” Nate sighs heavily, the intensity of the exhalation making the phone crackle. He sounds wistful when he continues, “When it did work, it was amazing. You’d go to bed chilly, under a gray sky, and in the morning there’d be this fresh new world that seemed to have sprung up overnight. It was like we were waking up with the earth itself.” “It sounds incredible,” Mark says. Then, more honestly: “Or, well — I am not built for sleeping on the ground, Nate, okay, so the truth is it sounds kind of nightmarish to me — but the concept is very cool.” He pauses, and then, more hesitantly, adds, “But, uh. With everything you’ve told me about your allergies, I have to guess last year’s trip was… not a great time?” “You’re not wrong,” Nate says, grim. “It started out okay — I was a little sniffly on the hike in, but I figured it was just from the cold weather, and didn’t worry about it. And then the next morning, it turned out we’d timed it right and everything was waking up, which should have been awesome! Except that when I woke up, my eyes were almost completely swollen shut, and I started sneezing, and then I just… couldn’t stop. Like, at all. Thank god one of my friends is a nurse and figured out what was going on; nothing like that had ever happened to me before, and for the first ten minutes or so I genuinely thought I might be dying.” “Nate, that’s awful,” Mark exclaims. It’s also the only time he’s ever heard a story about a camping trip and ended up wishing he’d been there, but Mark decides to keep that part to himself. “What was really awful was the hike back out,” Nate says, his voice rueful. “Somebody had a Claritin on them, so I took that, and it helped enough that I could kind of see, and make it a few seconds between fits? But that was pretty much it. The others had to split up my gear and carry it out for me, because Finn — he’s the nurse — was afraid I’d throw my back out or break my neck, sneezing so violently in a 30 pound backpack. And nobody had brought more than a couple of tissues, so I spent like four hours using someone’s spare t-shirt as a handkerchief.” He pauses, and, quietly, adds, “God, sorry if this is… too gross, or whatever.” “Gross? No. Making me want to fight a forest on your behalf? A little,” Mark admits, adding the rest of the vegetables and the contents of a can of curry paste to his pot. “What a shitty way to find out you’ve got allergies, seriously. I’m so sorry.” “Oh, thanks. It was… well, no. I was going to say it wasn’t that bad, but honestly it was a disaster,” Nate says, sighing again. “I completely wrecked the whole trip, and there was no way to hide what was happening, or get any privacy. I swear even the squirrels were coming out of the trees to stare at me.” “Rude little bastards,” Mark says, making a tsking sound. “If it makes you feel any better, a few years ago I caught a cold on the flight to my brother Michael’s stupid destination wedding. There might be a human experience more embarrassing than having a sneezing fit, as a groomsman, dead in the middle of the bride’s vows, but if there is, then I’ve yet to discover it.” “Oh no,” Nate says. He’s laughing on it a little, but Mark can tell it’s not mocking laughter — more commiseration at the absurdity of the experience. “Not during the vows!” “Debbie still hasn’t forgiven me,” Mark says, shaking his head as he pours coconut milk into the pot on the stove. “Which is fine, I mean, Debbie’s a miserable person who literally never fails to ask me something about RuPaul’s Drag Race — “ “Well, why wouldn’t she?” Nate says, obviously joking. “She must — must — EHHHSHIEW! HehHh-heHhESssHieW! Oh, excuse me. I was going to say that she must know that we all have RuPaul beamed directly into our eyeballs every night, as per the Gay Agenda.” Mark laughs, and the conversation drifts onto the topic of Mark’s family for a while. He tells Nate about their other well-meaning but utterly ham-fisted attempts at LGTBQ+ support, their total lack of understanding regarding his career, and his brothers’ shared tendency towards marrying women who find Mark bizarre at best and outright irritating at worst. Nate’s a good listener, laughing in the right places and expressing sympathy where it’s called for, and Mark sets his curry to simmer as he talks, walking into the living room and settling down on the couch. “It could be worse, really,” Mark says, curling his feet up under him. “I mean, I think if I’d stayed in town with them all I would have lost my mind, but sometimes that’s how it is with family. We can’t all be lucky enough to have a sister as cool as Sam; she seems great, by the way.” There is a long pause. Then, in a very different tone, Nate says, “You… met Sam?” “Yes?” Mark says slowly; he hadn’t realized this would be a surprise. “She came to get your car a couple of hours ago? And — “ Nate interrupts him with a groan. “Oh my god, she promised me she wasn’t going to bother you. ‘Just get the car,’ I said! ‘Leave Mark alone, we literally just met,’ I said! And she was all, ‘God, Nate, I know how to handle myself,’ — which I’m realizing right now isn’t actually a promise at all, is it? Oh, I am going to kill her.” “It was fine, really,” Mark protests, only laughing a little at Nate’s outrage. “She didn’t bother me — she was nice! Well, she was nice eventually; I think at first she wanted to make sure I wasn’t planning to like, kill you and sell your organs on the black market.” Nate doesn’t say anything to this, and Mark, concerned that he’s put his foot in his mouth, says, “Nate? That was a joke — “ “No, I — I know,” Nate gasps, and Mark relaxes, realizing what’s going on even before Nate says, “Just — gotta — s-sneeze again — HeHtCHIEW! ETCHIEW! HehHhh-HEHhhHhSHIEW! Eh-excuse m-m-ESSSHIEW! ESSSHIEW! Oh my g-god, s-sorry, I — ETCHIEW! ETCHIEW! ETCHIEW!” “Bless you,” Mark says. Then, aware from the sound of his breathing that Nate’s not finished, he adds, “And you don’t have to apologize; take your time. It’s not like I’m doing anything.” “Th-thanks,” Nate says breathily, “I don’t think I’m — I’m quite — HEHHHHSHIEW! HEHCHIEW! EHHHHTCHIEW! Quite — done — HASHIEW! HAEHHHHHSHOO!” He blows his nose after this one, clearing his throat a few times before he says, “Whew, okay. Sorry about that. What were we talking about?” “No worries, and bless you again,” Mark says, smiling up at the ceiling. “And honestly, I’m sort of hesitant to remind you — “ “Too late, I’ve remembered,” Nate says darkly. “l seriously can’t believe Sam did that — did she get all weird and overprotective? Because, listen, she’s only eighteen months older than me! And we’re in our thirties! And she has no right to — to interrogate guys I’m seeing — “ “She was fine,” Mark says again, in his most soothing tones. “She wanted to look at the garage, that’s all. And I think… I think she just wanted to make sure I wasn’t an asshole? Honestly, it was kind of sweet, and I do think I successfully convinced her I wasn’t one.” “Of course you did,” Nate says, in the most irritable voice Mark’s ever heard him use, “you’re wonderful, but that’s not the point! I should get to at least take you on one date before my sister puts the screws to you! It’s bad enough you’ve already had to watch me sneeze my head off twice — “ “Okay, first of all, nobody puts the screws to me,” Mark says, glad no one can see the expression that’s been on his face since Nate said the word ‘wonderful.’ “At worst they try, and immediately find themselves regretting it; there are a few positives to uncontrollable motormouth, although I wouldn’t say they outweigh the downsides. And secondly, what is it going to take to convince you I don’t mind your allergies? Because I really don’t, Nate. They’re just allergies! You can’t help it! This is not like, a Scooby Doo type scenario, where several dates from now I’m going to pull off my mask and reveal myself to be horrified that you have to sneeze sometimes.” A pause. Then: “I had that happen this summer,” Nate says quietly. “I mean, not the Scooby Doo part, obviously, but — I went on a couple of dates with this guy I met at a work party. I warned him right up front that I had crazy allergies, and he seemed chill about it; he said he had allergies too, and that it was no big deal.” Nate laughs briefly, but there’s no humor in it. “Then one afternoon he took me to his friend’s stand up show, and they were cutting the g-grass outside when we got there, and the woman in the seat in front of me was wearing this awful — a-a-awful — p-p-puUhh-HUHH-HUUUUSCHOO! HUUUSCHOO! EHHH-EHHHSHIEWW! Oh my god, perfume. Christ, even thinking about it makes me — makes me need to — to — AAAAAASCHOO! ESSHIEW! HehhHh-hehHhh-HEhHhHHHCHOO!” “Bless,” Mark says, as Nate blows his nose. “And for what it’s worth, ‘Friends with stand-up comedians’ isn’t usually a good sign, in my experience. Especially when the comedian in question is doing a matinee. It’s right up there with ‘Friends with magicians’ — you probably dodged a bullet.” Nate snorts out half a laugh but doesn’t reply; Mark can tell talking about this is difficult for him. He’s desperately curious, but he forces himself to add, “I can certainly imagine what happened next, if you don’t want to relive it.” “Oh, it’s fine,” Nate says, not particularly sounding like it is. “I sneezed like a hundred times, he got embarrassed and angry, we left the theater, he never called me again. Same old story. Not that I’d have wanted him to call me, after that; he said telling people I have allergies wasn’t enough of a warning, and that I should show them a video or something, so they’d know what they were in for before agreeing to be seen with me in public.” “Wow, what the fuck,” Mark says. He was, until a second ago, folded in a comfortable, boneless slump, sinking deeper and deeper into the morass of his sofa, but now he sits bolt upright in outrage. “Listen — if you know his address I can make his life a nightmare of glitter. I mean, glitter mailed from all corners of the globe. Do you know how annoying it is to clean up glitter?” This startles a genuine laugh out of Nate, seeming to pull him back from the edge of his dark mood. “Actually, yes. Both of Sam’s kids love glittery anything, god help us all. The damn stuff’s all over my place. But no — I mean, thank you for the offer, but there’s no need to send Damian — “ “Oh, Damian,” Mark says at once. “Never trust a Damian! I dated a guy named Damian in high school and I swear to god he bit my aunt at my graduation party. Bit her, Nate!” “Oh my god,” Nate says, already laughing again, “why?” “Oh, he was high on acid and thought she was a gigantic chicken leg,” Mark says, rolling his eyes. “And he didn’t break the skin or anything, thank god, but every time I see her, to this day, I’m like, ‘Hey, Aunt Ruth,’ and she just raises an eyebrow. And I know she’s thinking, ‘Remember that time your boyfriend bit me? Because I will never forget.’” Nate laughs again, and the conversation slides into their respective exes, which is skipping right ahead to fourth or fifth date territory, but — whatever. There’s no point thinking about the rules here; they’ve already broken so many that it doesn’t really matter anymore. Mark tells Nate the broad strokes of his handful of serious relationships, doing his best to gloss over how many years it’s been since his last one, and shares a couple of his many hilariously bad blind date stories. Nate, again, proves to be an interested, responsive listener, although he has to pause to sneeze several times. In exchange, Mark learns that Nate had been engaged, to a guy he’d been seeing since college, until eighteen months ago, when he found out his fiancé had been cheating for nearly a year. This incenses Mark so much that he nearly pops a throw pillow from clutching it in rage, but he thinks he hits the appropriate tone of ‘Sympathetic and horrified, but not to the point of violence towards innocent home decor,’ in his actual, out-loud response. Nate seems to appreciate this, and tells Mark about the messy breakup that led to him moving into the house behind Sam’s, and then about dating Simon, the guy who broke up with him over his allergies. More than a little of what he says about that relationship makes Mark’s hackles go up — it’s obvious to him, though it clearly isn’t to Nate, that Simon was horrible, manipulative, and taking advantage of Nate’s heartbreak. The breakup there must have been bad; all Nate will say about it is that it was public, his voice tight on the words before he quickly moves on. Mark bites down on his curiosity as hard as he can, but makes a note to investigate further when possible. Anyway, after all that Nate apparently tried blind dating and the various apps for a while, with very little success. His allergies always got in the way, and, though he doesn’t say as much, it was clearly a blow to his confidence; Mark can’t help but reflect that for someone who looks like Nate, regular rejection like that would have come as a painful and unfamiliar surprise. It’s no wonder Sam said he’d had a bad eighteen months — as far as Mark can tell, it’s been an absolute shit show. “By the time I met you on that elevator I’d kind of given up,” Nate admits, a bit of a wince in his voice. “Which I know sounds dramatic, but. That’s just where I was at. It’s why I didn’t do the smart thing and introduce myself right away, even though that’s what I would have done, before — cute guy, limited window of opportunity, it’s a no-brainer. But — HUHCHOO!” There’s a clattering noise, and then hitching laughter as Nate, sounding further away now, says, “Oh, sorry, I d-dropped the — HUHSHIEW! Huhhhh-HUUUHHSHIEW! The — ASHEW! ASHEW! AAASHIEW! Oh my god, the ph-phone.“ Another clatter as he scoops it up, and then, “Hold on — I think — one more — ehhhh-eHhhhHhh-ehHHHHHHH-EHHHHHSHIEW!” He gasps out a “Gah,” and then says, “Jesus Christ, that was a big sneeze. One second.” He sets the phone down again and blows his nose for almost a full minute, time Mark uses to consider the rogue’s gallery of Nate’s recent exes. On the one hand, they obviously all deserve to wake up in a toxic slime chamber every day for the rest of their lives. On the other hand, he kind of wants to send them all a fruit basket, to reward them for being stupid enough to let this man get away from them, and thus find his way to Mark. “Okay, I’m back,” Nate says, and then, before Mark can get into expressing his sympathy for Nate’s dating woes, adds, “So, fun update: did you know we’ve been on the phone for two hours?” Mark gasps, his train of thought utterly derailed. “No we have not! It’s been forty minutes, tops — oh my god, it’s 9:30. Oh my god, my curry — “ He rushes to the stove, relieved to find that at least he hasn’t blackened the pan, and starts to laugh. “Wow, well. It’s, uh. Definitely cooked, that’s for sure.” “You’re making curry? God, that sounds good,” Nate says. “I haven’t had dinner yet either — I was going to make myself something after I called you.” Not sounding at all sorry about it, he adds, “I didn’t think we’d talk so long.” “I’d tell you to come over and help yourself, but a) I’m thinking it’s a little too cooked, and b) it’s looking really crazy out there, holy shit,” Mark says, peeking out the window for the first time in hours. There’s at least a foot and a half of snow on the ground, and it’s still coming down heavily, huge white flakes thick in the air. Then he processes what Nate’s said. “Wait — have you eaten anything since you got home?” “Not… really,” Nate admits, sounding like he’s realizing it for the first time. “I took my meds when I got back, and got in the shower, and then went to ask Sam to deal with the car. And then I realized the sneezing wasn’t stopping, so I took a Benedryl too, and pretty much just passed out. When I woke up, I — I — HAAAAAASCHOO! HAESSSHOO! Ehhh-HEHH-HAAAATCHOO! Christ, enough already. I called you, is what I was trying to say.” “Oh my god, dude, go eat,” Mark says, appalled. “And bless you, obviously, but like — food. Have some. It’s important for staying alive. I can express my deep dislike towards all of your ex-boyfriends, at length, some other time.” He pauses, considering what he’s just said, and hastily adds, “I mean for being dicks to you, not like. This isn’t like Weird Jealousy Hour with Mark, it’s fine that they dated you, just — the behavior is reprehensible, not — oh, you understand what I’m saying, right?” “I do,” Nate assured him, sounding gently amused by Mark’s panicky babbling, as opposed to perturbed, confused, or irritated, which is how people usually respond. “And I do think you’re right that I should eat something, but — look, I’m sorry if this is too much too fast, but I really don’t want to wait until next week to see you again. Can I come by tomorrow? I promise not to put my nose near anything duh-HUHCHOO! HUHHHCHOO! Whoops, god. Snuck up on me. Dusty.” “I’d love that,” Mark says, his voice small and dreadfully pleased. “You’re welcome whenever you like, so long as the snow has stopped and it’s safe to drive. God knows I’ll be around — at this rate, I probably won’t be able to get the Civic out until Tuesday.” The thought of his car buried under the snow is a bummer, but he brightens quickly, adding, “But at least it’s the last time I’ll have to dig it out. Sam’s got a crew coming Thursday.” “Hmm,” Nate says, clearly still annoyed with his sister. “Well, I guess I’m glad you got something out of being — b-being — oh, EHHHHSHIEW! AAASHIEW! EHH-EHHHCHIEW! Ugh, excuse me. Being questioned.” His blows his nose briefly, and then his tone shifts into something warmer, softer, as he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mark. Have a good night, okay?” “You too, Nate,” Mark says, “bye,” and allows himself one embarrassing, infatuated sigh as soon as the call clicks off. For a couple of minutes he just stands there, smiling down into his pot of incredibly overcooked dinner, warmed through to his toes by the conversation and the bright promise of tomorrow. He eats a few evaluative bites directly out of the pot, and then gives up, accepts that he’s taken it past the point of no return, and scrapes it all out into the trash. Normally ruining a whole batch of perfectly good curry would put Mark in an absolutely wretched mood, but he’s humming to himself as he washes the pot, makes a PB&J, and sits down in his breakfast nook to eat it. He watches the snow as he slowly works his way through the sandwich, so caught up in his thoughts and the beauty outside that he keeps forgetting to bother taking bites. After about ten minutes, he decides he wants a… a record of this moment, this feeling, this day. He leaves his half-eaten sandwich on the plate, grabs a pad and some charcoal pencils, and spends the next hour sketching out the scene — the bitemarks in the PB&J, the riot of snow falling outside the window, the distant specter of the garage just visible in the background. He doesn’t think about what he’s doing, just pours all his bouncing, bubbling feelings into the work, and at the end finds himself with a rare cherry to top his absolute dream of a day: a piece of his own artwork that he’s truly proud of, without any lingering doubts. Mark grabs a handful of thumbtacks and, carefully, secures the sketch to the kitchen wall, right next to the illustration of Roger Raccoon in the snow; it’ll do until he has the time to frame it. He looks at the two images side by side, eyes narrowed, for a long time. Then he smiles. Then he laughs. Then he takes himself to bed, eager for tomorrow to come. - Mark wakes up early on Sunday morning, groggy and disoriented, annoyed at having his dream interrupted. It was a good dream — Mark was sat at an easel, doing a large oil painting of a broad, dark-haired man. The work looked good, which, since Mark had never been very good with oils, would have made for an amazing dream in and of itself, but that was hardly the best part. The best part was that every few minutes, the model would lift two fingers to his dark red nose, struggle desperately against it for a moment, and then let out an enormous sneeze. God, it was such a vivid dream, too; if Mark listens, he can still almost hear the scrape of the palette knife against the canvas, even now that he’s awake. Mark wakes up enough at this point for two things to happen. The first is that his memory of yesterday comes back to him, dropping into his head all at once. It makes him recognize the man he was dreaming about was Nate, although the sleeping version of Mark hadn’t known who he was painting. He’d just been enjoying the hell out of his luck, which, really, seems about right. The second thing that happens is that Mark realizes he can, in fact, still hear a distinct, repetitive scraping noise. It sounds like it’s coming from outside, and Mark’s eyes, which had been drifting shut to make another run at sleep, slam fully open. He spends a panicked half-second trying to figure out what could be causing the sound — rats? Thieves? Rat thieves? — before he hears a distant, “EHHHHHSHIEW,” and knows. “What is that maniac up to?” Mark says to himself, sounding far too pleased about it even to his own ears. “It’s not even 9AM!” He gets up, pulls his robe — the big, fluffy green one he practically lives in during the winter — over his flannel pajama bottoms and white t-shirt, steps into his slippers, grabs his cane, and hurries towards the source of the sound. It seems to be coming from the back of the house, and Mark rushes through the kitchen, throws open the back door, and… stops. Nate’s dark blue Jeep is parked next to Mark’s Civic. There is now a bright yellow plow attached to the front of the Wrangler, which must be how Mark’s driveway, which usually wouldn’t be passable for at least another few hours, came to be cleared of the nearly three feet of snow that’s fallen. Nate also dug out Mark’s car, and is currently scraping the ice from his back windshield, expertly wielding a professional-looking tool he must have brought with him; Mark’s certainly never seen it before. Best of all, Nate’s shoveled out a long, comfortably wide path from the back door of the house to Mark’s parking spot. Not only shoveled it, but salted it, so the ice that makes Mark’s life an agony on days like this can’t form. It’s one of those things he always means to do but never gets around to, especially because actually doing it is so difficult for him, and he’s surprised to find himself near tears, looking down at it. It’s such a considerate, genuine thing for Nate to have done — something so helpful, that makes it so clear that he was listening even to Mark’s rambling complaints — that he feels almost faint for a second, overwhelmed. Then his head clears, and, opting for slightly overwrought laughter instead of tears, he calls out, “Nate, you lunatic! I told you to stop doing manual labor for me!” Nate turns; there’s snow on his navy blue ski jacket, on his charcoal grey scarf, caught in the dark waves of his hair. His grin is brighter even than the white flakes as he calls back, “I decided I don’t care if you only like me for my brawn, so long as you like me!” Then he pauses, turns, and lets out a huge “EHHHHHSHIEW!” before he grins again and calls, “Last one, I promise!” And that’s it, for Mark. That’s it. He throws caution and propriety and heat retention to the winds and stalks out of the house in his slippers and robe, crossing the shoveled walkway as fast as his knee will allow. When he reaches Nate, he takes the tool from his hand — it seems to be a small, sharp metal ice blade, which Mark will have to investigate later — and places it carefully on the closed trunk of his Civic. Then he puts his cane down gently next to it, making sure it’s not going to roll away before he does anything else. These necessities taken care of, Mark grabs Nate by the lapels of his jacket, says, “As if I’m in it for the brawn,” and kisses the absolute crap out of him. It’s a good kiss. Mark would think it was the best kiss of his life, but the others don’t compare by such a staggering margin that he’s not sure he can even think of them as kisses anymore. They were just… mouth touches, or practice runs, or something. This is more like the first kiss of his life, the first one that’s felt the way songs and storybooks promised they would, and Mark loses himself in it, the press of Nate’s mouth against his. Nate wraps strong arms around him and Mark lets himself relax and be held, knowing instinctively that he can trust Nate to keep him upright. He’s glad he can trust someone for that — kissing Nate is dizzying, decimating, and Mark’s not sure he could manage standing on his own. After a few minutes, they separate, though only at the lips; Nate doesn’t release his hold on Mark and Mark doesn’t ask him to, burrows closer into his warmth instead. He has to take a second to catch his breath, and he rests his head on Nate’s shoulder, pleased to find their respective heights are perfectly matched to make this extremely comfortable. Eventually, Nate starts to laugh. “I have to say, that is the best thank you I’ve ever gotten for plowing a driveway.” “Oh, shut up,” Mark says, though there’s no bite to it at all. “It’s not my fault you look so good in snow gear.” “Seriously, most people just give me a plate of cookies or twenty bucks or something,” Nate teases, obviously enjoying this bit. “But you! You really went all out — “ Mark kisses him again just to make him stop talking, and between one thing and another loses several more minutes to this extremely urgent business. When they break apart again, they’re both panting, although Nate is the only one of them who says, “Wait,” leans away, and catches an, “ISSSSHIEW!” in his elbow. Ruefully, he says, “Sorry about that — I shouldn’t have promised.” “Ask me how much I care right now,” Mark says, shivering all over with pleasure. “And bless you, of course.” Nate must mistake Mark’s shiver for a reaction to the temperature, which, to be fair, isn’t entirely wrong. He’s freezing — it just doesn’t matter that much, in the circumstances. But Nate, his voice low, says, “You’re cold, Mark. If you’ll ask me in, I swear I won’t make the mistake of suggesting we go anywhere else this time.” “Of course I want you to come in,” Mark says, raising his eyebrows incredulously. “What part of this whole ‘Storming out here and kissing you’ thing suggested I wanted you to do anything other than — “ This time Nate kisses him, firmly and thoroughly, before breaking away with a smile. “Okay, then. Inside it is.” He grabs Mark’s cane off the Civic, hands it to him, and then unzips his jacket, holding it open in invitation. Mark takes him up on this offer immediately, wrapping his arms around Nate’s waist and scrunching to fit under the coat with him. It’s ridiculous — they both start to laugh, aware that they must look like fools — but it is a lot warmer. They walk the carved-out path through the snow like that, pressed together, giggling like teenagers. It’s not even nine in the morning, but Mark feels drunk with excitement, the emotion all but singing through him. They stumble through the back door and shut it to the world, Nate’s smile a captivating promise of things to come. Some hours later, they order a pizza. THE END [Mark and Nate will return in THE BEST LAID PLANS, coming to a forum near you as soon as I finish writing the first part, lol. Thanks again for the kindness, encouragement and support — it fills me with delight and truly keeps me going!! 💙] Link to comment
EveP Posted December 21, 2022 Share Posted December 21, 2022 Ever since the start of this story I've logged in daily, hoping for an update. Several times there have been notifications that this string has been updated but it has just been comments. Don't get me wrong, it's perfectly natural that such a good story gets lots of comments, but I needed more of Mark and Nate, and today I got just that. 🙂 Thank you! This is one of the few stories I would happily read even without the sneezing. Link to comment
HPG Posted December 21, 2022 Share Posted December 21, 2022 Thank you for writing this! I can't wait to read the next story Link to comment
JohnnyOxn Posted December 21, 2022 Share Posted December 21, 2022 A notable thing I like about your writing is how you take time to develop the world surrounding your characters. Good luck on the next story! Link to comment
treehouse Posted December 22, 2022 Author Share Posted December 22, 2022 23 hours ago, EveP said: Ever since the start of this story I've logged in daily, hoping for an update. Several times there have been notifications that this string has been updated but it has just been comments. Don't get me wrong, it's perfectly natural that such a good story gets lots of comments, but I needed more of Mark and Nate, and today I got just that. 🙂 Thank you! This is one of the few stories I would happily read even without the sneezing. Ahhh thank you so much!! I’ve had writer’s block for such a long time (we’re talking years), and hearing this is such a salve to the part of me that was sure I’d just forgotten how to do this. I’m so glad you enjoyed it! 22 hours ago, HarryPotterGeek said: Thank you for writing this! I can't wait to read the next story Thanks so much!! So glad you enjoyed this, and I can’t wait to show you the next installment (just as soon as I get it out of my head and into a Google doc)! 19 hours ago, JohnnyOxn said: A notable thing I like about your writing is how you take time to develop the world surrounding your characters. Good luck on the next story! Ah, thank you so much! I’ve done some professional writing over the years, and worldbuilding is both really important to me and one of the areas where my confidence tends to give out on me, so I appreciate this more than you know! 💙 Link to comment
MidnightCatK Posted December 23, 2022 Share Posted December 23, 2022 I... I feel like I just read the forum equivalent of a Hallmark Christmas movie. This was just plain beautiful and so warming to the soul. Thank you again for sharing! Link to comment
Fiadh Posted December 23, 2022 Share Posted December 23, 2022 2 hours ago, MidnightCatK said: I... I feel like I just read the forum equivalent of a Hallmark Christmas movie Literally couldn’t phrase it more accurately!!!!! This story is amazing and, like at least one other person has mentioned, I’m so invested in the story, even if there wasn’t any sneezing! Your characters are already more complex and well rounded than some actual published books I’ve read! Keep up the amazing work and I can’t wait to see what Mark and Nate get up to next!!! (Maaaaybe Nate finds out how Mark feels about sneezes and indulges it?!? 🤞🤞🤞 but I’ll take anything new with them in it!!!!!!) Link to comment
Privatedancer Posted December 23, 2022 Share Posted December 23, 2022 This was wonderful. I forced myself to only read a bit each day so I could savor it now to start re-reading…..and waiting. Link to comment
thesneezyowl Posted December 23, 2022 Share Posted December 23, 2022 I have read and reread this last post/story over and over! It’s truly been the best Christmas present!! 🎁 Link to comment
RosyLights Posted December 23, 2022 Share Posted December 23, 2022 What a great update! This is such an amazing story; I love all of the details that make the world and characters feel alive. Speaking of the characters, I love their relationship so much! It's so sweet how they found each other again after hoping that they would meet again. This was a great ending to a wonderful story, and I look forward to seeing what happens in the next one! Link to comment
treehouse Posted December 23, 2022 Author Share Posted December 23, 2022 The first part of the sequel to this story has been posted here: The Best Laid Plans! And not to be a broken record, but thanks so much for the lovely comments; they mean the world to me 💙 Link to comment
ID2006 Posted December 23, 2022 Share Posted December 23, 2022 This would put Hallmark movies to shame Link to comment
Freshair Posted December 25, 2022 Share Posted December 25, 2022 Thank you for writing this ❤️ This "met in a elevator" fiction presses ALL the right buttons! Link to comment
Stormer235 Posted December 27, 2022 Share Posted December 27, 2022 Wow, this fiction is such an instant classic. I can't believe it took me this long to get to reading it. Can't wait for the next story with these characters! Link to comment
HideAndGoSneeze Posted December 27, 2022 Share Posted December 27, 2022 This is easily becoming one of my favorite stories, these two characters pulling at my heart. You have an amazing gift for story writing! I can't wait to read more! Link to comment
peachblossom Posted December 27, 2022 Share Posted December 27, 2022 Hi! I just wanted to say that I've really loved reading all of this story. You have a wonderful way with words, and your ability to describe the easy banter between these two characters is stunning. Thank you for sharing your story with us! Link to comment
Hajo Posted January 1, 2023 Share Posted January 1, 2023 Perfect story. I wished someone would make a film of it! 😉 Link to comment
Lady Blessington Posted January 4, 2023 Share Posted January 4, 2023 The garage poster oh my goodness 😂💕. I am reading this in instalments to savour it. It is so funny and romantic dude and so hot! Your spellings with the shifts between upper case and lower case are so evocative, and I love all the hitching and the trying to talk and the frustrated “oh my gods” and the heartfelt “bless yous!” It’s fun to have a protagonist who is in on the kink, and oh my goodness I love the whole business of the tissues in the elevator and how Nate is always trying to contain his (uncontrollable) sneezes in them. Also just the whole vibe of non-judgment about people sneezing and not being able to help it is really lovely. Thanks for your service ✌️✌️✌️ Link to comment
GraySkies Posted January 4, 2023 Share Posted January 4, 2023 Oh, wow. I am completely in love with your writing. Your descriptions are amazing!! I love how cute Mark and Nate's interactions are. I'd even read about these two in a non-fetish story. Thanks so much for taking the time to share this with us! Link to comment
hetchiew Posted January 7, 2023 Share Posted January 7, 2023 On 12/8/2022 at 11:39 AM, treehouse said: Hello! So this is a real, “Long time listener, first time caller,” situation for me — I’ve been lurking here for ages, and first of all, I just want to express my gratitude for all of you. Finding this place helped me understand myself at a time when I really needed it, and it’s provided both the comfort of knowing it’s not just me(!) and a lot of entertainment over the years. Thank you. Secondly: I write a fair amount of fiction, but I’ve been badly blocked for a long time. So recently, I decided to try an experiment — writing something with no expectations, no pressure, strictly for the sake of enjoying myself, just to see if I could still do it. Turns out I can! As long as the story I’m writing centers around… one very particular topic. And I figured, since you folks are the other people on earth who might enjoy this (and since you’ve given me so much great content), I might as well finally create an account here and share my efforts with you. This is the first part of a longer story that I very much intend to continue, but, in deference to the whole “no pressure” aspect of this little experiment, I’ve written this opening chapter to be okay standing alone. There is some light swearing in it, largely for tone and character building purposes, but I think that’s about all we’re looking at in terms of content warnings? And apologies for any formatting issues — I’m posting this from my phone, and in any case a new platform always takes me a few tries to really figure out. I hope you enjoy this story even half as much as I’ve enjoyed all the incredible work on this forum over the years. Thanks again. -TH CHAPTER ONE: SEPTEMBER Mark Kaplan stops in front of the doors to his office building and sighs. It’s not that he hates his job; in fact, he loves it most of the time. But that’s because most of the time, being the Art Director for Finest Frozen Foods is something he can do in sweatpants from his own home. Mark’s not a shut-in or anything, but he’s selective when it comes to both friends and conversations, and nothing drains his social battery quite like making small talk with painfully straight coworkers. Also, this is the third time in as many days that he’s had to come into the office for a meeting that could have just as easily been an email, and he is, quite frankly, over it. At least it’s a late meeting, so the lobby is pretty empty when he steps inside. The early mornings here are the stuff of Mark’s nightmares — he always ends up stuck waiting for the elevator with one of his chattier coworkers, and has to stumble through pretending to remember the details of their kids’ lacrosse tournament, or college applications, or whatever else while only half-caffeinated. But now, because it’s 3PM on a Friday afternoon, everyone Mark passes is uninterested in speaking to him, or to anyone. They’re all scurrying towards the exits, heads down, looking to escape for the weekend before anyone notices they’ve gone. Mark rounds the corner, approaches the elevator and pushes the call button, taking a moment, as he always does, to curse whatever S-level cheapskate chose this building to move the company into last year. The elevator situation alone — a single, ancient unit that moves at a snail’s pace and gets briefly stuck at least once a day — should have disqualified the whole place from consideration on sight. But while Mark has ultimate veto power on, say, the font on the packaging for Finest’s new line of gluten free breakfast burritos, his opinion is not considered in matters of real estate. It’s a shame, really. They could obviously use his help. The elevator makes a distant, unhappy creaking noise. Mark groans; in his experience, this means it’s descending from the top floor, and he’s in for an excruciating wait. Bitterly, he spends a moment entertaining himself with a list of things he hates about coming in to the office: the parking, the coffee, the small talk, the weird smell, the horrible elevator, everything about the concept of ‘business casual,’ the bathrooms — “HahESSSHIEW!” The sneeze interrupts Mark’s train of thought entirely. As he looks around as subtly as he can for its source, he can’t help thinking, Well, there’s one benefit of coming in, at least. He adores his mostly-remote work setup, but Mark’s house, for all its many upsides, does not feature a lot of opportunities to satiate this particular appetite. It’s probably for the best — Mark’s never told anyone about his pronounced, peculiar interest in sneezing, and when he was in the office full-time, he was always afraid his face would betray him every time someone reached for a tissue. Still, he misses catching his coworker’s occasional, random sneezes now that he mostly doesn’t get to anymore; hearing one over a Zoom call just isn’t the same. Mark doesn’t see the sneezer, but he does hear footsteps, and the sound of one of the exterior doors closing. That means whoever it was likely just stepped inside the building, and whether they’re planning to use the elevator or the stairs, they’ll have to round the same corner he did to get anywhere. He waits, watching the hallway in question out of the corner of his eye, and then — Oh. Oh, yes. If Mark’s looking to satiate his appetites, then the man who rounds the corner is a veritable feast. He’s gorgeous, first of all: he looks about Mark’s age, somewhere in his early thirties, and he’s tall, with messy dark hair, blue eyes, and shoulders so broad they’re visibly straining the seams of his white button down shirt. In fact, all of his clothes are wearing a little oddly, as though he’s more used to t-shirts and jeans than khakis and a tie. Even as Mark watches, the man loosens said tie enough to unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt. This gesture of work-weary defeat, combined with his close-cropped beard and the leather tool belt slung over his stiff khakis, somehow adds up to an overall vibe of “Very hot lumberjack on his first day in the witness protection program.” Mark would be lying if he said the look wasn’t working for him. Secondly, and more importantly, the man is quite obviously the sneezer. His rather large nose gives him away — faintly pink all the way up to the bridge and a deep, chafed red around the nostrils, it’s clear that the sneeze Mark just heard wasn’t the first of the day. He hopes it won’t be the last, especially when the man stops next to him in front of the elevator. He nods pleasantly to Mark and then turns towards the doors to wait, which is exactly what Mark would normally want from a stranger in this situation. It’s not the guy’s fault he’s so desperately attractive that, just this once, Mark wishes he would try to start some insipid conversation about the weather, or sports, or whatever; anything to get them talking. Mark would strike up a conversation himself, but he realizes abruptly that after spending so much time trying to avoid exactly this sort of workplace interaction, he can’t quite remember how to start one. They stand in silence for a minute, Mark watching the man surreptitiously in the reflection of the stainless steel elevator door. Whatever was bothering his nose before is clearly not entirely through with him; Mark’s anticipation climbs as the man takes a few shaky breaths, then reaches up and rubs two fingers beneath his nose. This seems to take care of things for a moment, but then he’s reaching up again and pinching both nostrils between his index finger and thumb — rubbing that finger and thumb up and down along the sides of his nose — dropping his hand to his side with a slightly frustrated sigh. This cycle repeats as Mark tries frantically to remember if he’s ever seen this sniffling stranger before. Surely he’d recall it if he had; Finest’s Frozen Foods is not long on cute guys, let alone devastating stunners like this one, and Mark sincerely doubts he’d have missed him. So: a new employee, then? Or just a reclusive one? Or — Mark looks the man up and down out of the corner of his eye, his gaze catching on the tool belt — maybe he’s a fire marshal, or an electrician, or… something. Someone whose work has to do with the building itself. Most of the things hanging from his belt are mysterious little plastic meters — not a lot to be gleaned there, at least not for Mark — but several of them do have printed labels on the side that say GRAHAM. Inconvenient though it is that Graham could be either a first or a last name, it’s all the information Mark has to go on, and he decides to run with it, at least for now. The man — presumably Graham — sniffles deeply, then pinches his nose shut again. He holds the gesture rather longer this time, and when he drops his hand, his reddened nose twitches slightly. There’s both congestion and the faintest edge to a hitch in his voice when he says, “Does the elevator always take this long?” “You must be new,” Mark says, smiling at him. “It’s the slowest elevator in America, at least as far as anyone here can tell. Most people give up and take the stairs, but,” he gestures towards his cane, then remembers with a start that it’s not in his hand. “Oh, god, right. Sorry, that’s — usually there would be a cane there, but my knee’s actually not that bad today, so. Left it in the car. It wouldn’t survive the stairs, though — my knee, I mean, not the cane — which is why, you know. I always wait for the slowest elevator in America.“ Mark, realizing abruptly that he’s babbling, snaps his mouth shut, horrified with himself. Luckily, Graham’s either very polite or a big fan of babbling, because he smiles. It’s a breathtakingly good smile; wide and warm and friendly, crinkling his eyes at the corners. Slightly breathily, he says, “Makes sense. And I’m not new — or, well, technically I am new, but I don’t work here.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but takes a sharp, hitching breath and pauses instead, reaching up to pinch his nose shut once more. When he drops his hand this time, his nose twitches again, far more obviously than earlier, and he sniffles hard. His eyes are starting to water, too. For once in his life, Mark’s glad the elevator’s so slow. “Sorry, what?” Mark says, pretending not to have noticed — or, at least, not to have understood — what just happened. His heart is pounding, but he sounds innocently confused as he says, “You’re new, but you don’t work here?” “I’m — I’m the new — b-building inspector,” Graham says, audibly struggling to get it out. His nostrils are flaring now, and he lifts two fingers to hold beneath his nose as he gasps, “I’m so sorry, I — I have to — h-have to — sn-sn-sneeEEEEEEESHIEW!” He turns away from Mark as the itch finally overwhelms him, but Mark watches the sneeze play out in the reflection from the elevator, noting that Graham keeps his fingers under his nose despite their utter failure to hold anything back. Witnessing this alone would be enough to justify a dozen trips to the office, but immediately after releasing the first sneeze, Graham tips his head back, fingers still held beneath his nose, and builds up into two more, each sounding itchier than the last: “HihHh-hIhhHhh-HISSSSSHU! HiiiiiiiISSSSSHOO! Oh my god, excuse me.” He’s so congested it comes out, ‘Oh by god, excuse be,’ and Mark decides he’s going to have to give up remote work one of these days, if this is the reward for being physically present. “Bless you,” he says, instead of any of that. Graham smiles, though the expression looks… distracted. He’s sniffling rather more wetly now. “Thanks.” “Did you catch that awful cold that’s been going around? I literally just had it; it was brutal.” This is a shameless play for information — Graham’s red, bloodshot eyes suggest allergies more than illness — but Mark can’t help himself. He hasn’t technically lied, anyway; it’s true enough that he just got over a nasty cold. “No,” Graham says with a sigh, sniffling hard again. Incredibly, it sounds like there’s another sneeze building in his voice; the elevator finally reaches the lobby as he’s talking, and Mark’s never been less happy to see it arrive. “I just have really — really crazy — hEHhh — oh, god, excuse me. Crazy allergies.” He rubs a knuckle fiercely underneath his nose as, ruefully, he adds, “I’d understand if you’d rather I catch the next one, though.” “Are you kidding? You’d be waiting here til Christmas; I’m not a monster,” Mark jokes, trying not to sound overly eager to get into an unreliable elevator with an allergic stranger. He steps inside, pushes the button for his floor, holds the door open with an arm, and, noticing the slight reluctance on Graham’s face, adds, “Seriously — I’m not worried about it, man. Plus, if you’re the building inspector, then I want to personally ensure you inspect this elevator. It’s my nemesis, and probably haunted; I need all the allies I can get in my quest to defeat its dark evil.” Jesus Christ, Mark has got to stop talking. The man is simply too hot — he shouldn’t be allowed to wander around unsupervised, affecting innocent citizens this way. Just being around him, especially in his itchy, allergic state, has critically damaged Mark’s brain-to-speech filter. Normally he has a carefully refined system in place for this sort of conversation, where words about to escape his mouth go through a quick series of crucial checks like, “Wait, is this a really fucking weird thing to say?” and “Seriously: are you sure?” But Graham’s presence has frazzled Mark so much that even his trusty filtering system seems to have overheated, and he has no choice but to soldier on without it. Luckily, Mark’s declaring an elevator his sworn enemy seems to entertain Graham. He laughs, though it sounds careful, like he’s afraid breathing in too deeply will trigger the sneeze he’s obviously fighting back. Stepping onboard the elevator, he selects the floor before Mark’s. Please get stuck, Mark silently begs the elevator as the doors shut and it starts to creep its way back up. You’ve done me dirty so many times — I’ve been late for so many meetings — please! Do the one thing you’re good at and get! Stuck! They make it up one floor — two — Graham is rubbing his nose again — his breath is coming slightly faster — three floors, now — and, yes! The elevator lurches gently, groans, and comes to a dead stop. “You have got to be kidding me,” Graham says, his voice pitched somewhat higher than it was a moment ago. “Is it s-stuck?” “Yeah,” Mark says, affecting an air of long-suffering despair. He doesn’t have to reach far for the emotion, since it’s what he’s felt every single other time the elevator has ever done this with him inside. This particular time he’s downright gleeful — they’ll be stuck in here for fifteen minutes at least, and the chances of another sneeze are growing by the moment — but doesn’t think it would be great to let on about his enthusiasm to Graham. He sighs as he pushes the alarm button, projecting annoyance as he says, “I swear it does this like once a day. There’s some reset button downstairs you have to hit, I guess; the alarm will let somebody know we’re in here eventually.” “Well, that’s d-definitely not up to code,” Graham mutters, reaching both hands down to rustle in his pants pockets, then in the various leather pouches and pockets that make up his tool belt. Mark wonders if he’s looking for a tissue; whatever he’s after, he doesn’t find it, and his shoulders sag as he drops his hands back to his sides. After a second, he reaches up to pinch his nose again, not removing his grip as he says, “H-how long does it usually t-t-take?” Mark shrugs. “It depends. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? The longest I’ve ever waited was forty-five minutes, but that was while everyone was at lunch.” “Oh, g-god,” Graham says. It’s obvious he’s at the end of the line, and he must know it; he releases his nose from the pinch and curls his hand into a fist instead, pushing it up hard into his twitching nostrils from below. Quickly, like he’s trying to beat the sneeze to the finish line, he gasps out, “L-listen, I know — I know it’s an — heHhh — an enclosed s-space, and I — hehHhH — oh my god, I don’t mean to be a dick, b-but I — “ His eyes glaze, then flutter shut as he says, so mangled by congestion and hitching that Mark barely understands it, “I r-really, r-r-really n-n-need to s-sn-sneeze. I’m s-sorry, I c-can’t — I can’t h-h-hold it b-back any — anymore, I — I — heHh-hEhHhHhh-hEHhHHHH-HEHHHHHHHHHSHIEW!” This sneeze by itself would have elevated the whole encounter into the upper echelons of Mark’s fondest memories, to be worn thin as tissue with replaying in quiet moments. It is harsh, desperate, wet, and loud, all but reverberating through the tiny space they’re standing in, and it bends Graham’s whole body violently to the left, away from Mark. He sneezes directly into his closed first, a faint cloud of escaping spray briefly visible in the elevator’s shitty fluorescent light, and gasps out a stunned, half-vocalized, “Gah,” at the end, a dazed expression on his face. It is a perfect, exquisite moment, at least for Mark; he has to imagine it’s somewhat less pleasant for Graham. But then, amazingly, Graham begins hitching again. All he manages to say is, “Oh, god,” before he’s cupping both hands over his nose and mouth and dissolving into an absolutely vicious fit: “HaH-HAH-HAAAAAASCHOO! HAAAAASCHOO! Heh-HEHISSHU! ISSHU, ISSSHU, ISSSSSSSHU, HAh-HAH-HAHHHH-HAAAAAAAAASCHEW! HAHSHEW! HAHSHEW! HAHSHEW! HEHHHH-ESSSSSSSHIEW!” He gasps damply for a second after this last one, and then, shakily, says, “Oh my god, ex-excuse— ehh-EHHHHHSHIEW! Christ. Excuse me.” “Holy shit, dude, god bless you,” Mark says, boggled. He’d hoped to catch one more sneeze, not an entire baker’s dozen! Not that he’s complaining, obviously — this has rapidly turned into the single best office visit of his life — but elated though he is, he feels compelled to ask, “Are you, like… okay?” “Y-yeah,” Graham says, sighing. His hands are still tented over his nose and mouth; Mark’s not sure if it’s to conceal what must be a terrible mess, or if he’s expecting more sneezes. “This is just what it’s like on b-bad allergy days. It — oh, wait, I — I’m gonna — s-sneeze — again — HAAAAAAAASCHIEW! HEHHHSHEW! HihHh-hIhHh-hIHHHH-HIHISSSSSSSSSSSHU! Excuse me, oh my god. You w-wouldn’t h-happen to have a tihh — a tiHHhh — a tihhh-IHHHH-ISSSSSSSHU! ISSHU, ISSHU, ISSHU, ISSHU, ISSHU, HAH-HAISSSSSSHU!” “A tissue? Sorry, man, I really wish I — hold on,” Mark says, remembering something abruptly. Feeling like an idiot, he slides one arm of his backpack off his shoulder, swings the bag in front of him, opens the front pouch, and — “Ha! I totally forgot I stuck this in here while I was sick last week, or I would have offered you one earlier. Here.” He pulls out a small, slightly battered, but mostly full box of Kleenex and holds it out towards Graham, whose eyes are starting to flutter shut again. Keeping one hand over his nose and mouth, Graham frantically snatches two tissues with the other and lifts them to his face. Perhaps due to the relief of finally having something to properly catch them with, he immediately fires off a series of the most intense sneezes yet, not even turning his head away: “HUH-HUHHHHHHSHOOO! HUHHHHHSHOO! HUHHHHSHOO, HUHHHSHOO, HUHHHHSHOO — oh, n-no — RAAAAAASCHOO! RAAAAAASCHOO! RAAAAAASCHOO! RAAAAAASCHOO! HUH-HUH-HUHHHH-RAAAAaaAAASCHOOooO!” He takes two huge breaths at this point and then releases a harsh, difficult to parse sound; Mark can’t totally tell if it’s another sneeze or if he’s blowing his nose. Either way, it turns into a classic, trumpeting nose blow after a second, and Graham honks several times into the tissues before he finally balls them up tightly and drops them into an empty section of his tool belt. “Bless you like, a million times,” Mark says, trying to sound cool and casual and like this little display has not been a realization of many of his most intimate fantasies. “That sounded rough, man.” “I’m so s-sorry,” Graham says, still sounding terribly itchy and congested despite blowing his nose. “Ihhh-it’s probably going to s-stay like this for — for the rest of the — oh, AAAAAASHIEW!” He snatches another tissue out of the box to catch this sneeze in, and then laughs once it’s out, as if at himself. “God, sorry, that was probably rude. I don’t mean to just b-be — HAAASHIEW! AAAASHIEW! Ugh. Stealing your tih-tissues without aHh-asking.” “Dude, it’s seriously fine,” Mark says, amazed and somewhat charmed by this guy’s attempts to stay polite during the worst allergy attack Mark’s ever had the pleasure of witnessing. “My tissues are your tissues, or whatever — you definitely need them more than I do. And you can stop apologizing for the sneezing, too; I really don’t mind. It seems a lot worse for you than it is for me.” “It’s not… the best,” Graham admits. As if to confirm this, his nose begins to twitch again; he grabs another tissue and holds it hovering in front of his face, obviously waiting for the next bout. One allergic tear slips out of his left eye, unnoticed, as he says, “Th-thanks for being s-so nice about it. Sometimes people are — they’re — they’re — hiiiiiiiIIIIIIIISSSSSSHOO! HIIIIIISHOOO! Oh — HAAAAAASCHOO! HAAAAAASCHOO! HAH-HAH-HAAAAATCHOOO! Oh my god, excuse me. Sometimes people are assholes, is what I was g-going to say. I don’t totally blame them, but it — it — hehhhhssHOO! God. It kind of sucks.” “Bless you,” Mark says. “And don’t thank me for basic decency — it’s not like it’s hard.” Without thinking about it or meaning to, he gestures towards Graham with the tissue box, a silent question — Do you want another? You sound like you really need to blow your nose again — that his subconscious decided to ask without getting clearance from his brain first. But Graham nods gratefully and takes two, blows into them for almost a full minute, and then repeats this process with a second set of tissues before, finally, leaning against the elevator wall and tipping his head back to rest against the fake wood paneling. “Whew,” Graham says, and sighs. There’s still a slightly sneezy edge to his voice, but it’s muted now, as though the itch has receded somewhat. “That’ll only hold it for a minute or two, but at this point, I’ll take it.” “I don’t blame you,” Mark says, some of his astonishment seeping into his voice despite his best effort. “I think I’d want a break, too, if I were you.” Graham shakes his head, voice going wry as he says, “D’you know, I never used to be allergic to anything? 32 years, no problems. Amazing. And then this past spring…” He gestures wearily at himself, a perfect picture of allergic misery from his red nose to his watery eyes to his dark hair, badly tousled now from so much violent sneezing. “It was like it all just kicked in at once. My mom always had crazy bad allergies, but I thought I’d dodged them — I didn’t know they could turn up so late.” “Dude, that sucks,” Mark says sympathetically. It doesn’t suck for him, of course, but he feels for this excruciatingly attractive stranger, who seems like a polite, affable guy underneath his allergic misery. “Are they always like this? Because if they are, I mean… that must have been… a lot.” Graham laughs wearily. “You have no idea. I was a real outdoor sports nut — multi-day hikes, competitive mountain biking, that sort of thing — and it totally screwed up my social life. I had to drop out of a bunch of races and plans, I lost a big deposit for a glamping trip I never even wanted to go on in the first place, my boyfriend broke up with me — “ “Oh, what?” Mark demands, though inside his head the word ‘BOYFRIEND’ is lit up in gigantic neon letters. Trying to communicate as much of his own queerness as possible in the sentiment, he says, “I mean, don’t get me wrong — I have a long list of fucked up ways guys have dumped me — but that’s such a dick move.” “Eh, we weren’t going to work out anyway,” Graham says, with an easy little shrug. He sniffles, takes another tissue from the box in Mark’s hand, and rubs his nose gingerly within it. “It was one of those things where we were together when we were together, but that was mostly at campsites, or rock climbing retreats, or whatever. He was always kind of a jerk, but… I don’t know. It was familiar. He was around.” Graham winces, lowering the tissue. “God, this is making me sound like such an asshole.” “Nah, we’ve all been there,” Mark says, waving an easy hand. “I mean, not the camping part — some of us are indoor gays, thank you very much — but sometimes you just kind of end up in a rut with someone. Anyway, you’re not the one who dumped a guy for his medical condition, so. I sort of think you get the moral high ground automatically.” “Yeah, that… stung,” Graham admits. He wrinkles his nose and lets out a few hitching breaths, then sighs heavily. “God, sorry, I don’t mean to just be dumping all my problems on you. A random stranger!” he adds, chidingly, as if to himself. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Mark says, smiling at him. “If it makes you feel any better, I will remind you that just a few minutes ago, I asked you to get into this elevator because it is my nemesis. So maybe this was just destined to be kind of a weird interaction, you know?” Graham laughs. “Well, you were right about the elevator. It’s seriously in need of replacement, and I think it’s in violation of the ADA and fire codes, too, since it’s the only one. You could probably bring a lawsuit, if you wanted to.” “Eh,” Mark says, “I mostly work from home, so I’m only in here a few times a month, and even thinking about going to court makes me so… tired. I appreciate the thought, though.” Graham nods. He’s starting to look decidedly sneezy again — as Mark watches, he rubs at his eyes with the tissue in his hand, then grabs a fresh one to have at the ready, his mouth parting slightly. Sure enough, after another second he says, “I have to warn you, my nose is r-really starting to ihhh-IHHHH — god, excuse me. Itch. The s-sneezing is probably going to start up again in a s-second here; I’m sorry.” “Oh my god, dude,” Mark says, laughing on it a little. “You don’t have to warn me like you’re, I don’t know, some kind of bomb that’s about to go off or something. And you don’t have to keep apologizing, either! It’s literally fine.” “I just — hate making — such a s-spectacle — of myself,” Graham pants, his nostrils flaring wildly. “It’s — embarrassing. My ah-aHh-allergy sneezes are always — s-so huge and m-m-messy, and I know it’s — disruptive and — and g-gross. But I — oh, I just c-can’t — h-h-help it.” He moans, his whole nose scrunching up against some unbearable tickle, then says, “Oh, god, I’m — I’m gonna — g-gonna — hehhhHh-HHHEHHH-HYAAAAAAAAAAAAAASHOO! HYAAAAAASHOO! Ehhh-ehHhHH-ESSSSCHHHHIEEWWW! Huh… hUHhh… HUHHHHSCHOOO!” “Bless you!” Mark exclaims, surprised by the intensity of these sneezes, which have folded Graham over at the waist. Still half-bent, Graham blindly grabs for the tissue box; Mark helpfully moves into the path of his hand. Graham snatches a few more tissues out and gasps, “Nuh-not d-d-done — HAAAAASHIEW! ASHEW, ASHEW, ASHEW, ASHEWASHEW, HEH-HEHASHEW! Oh my god, ihhhh-it’s so ihhh-iHHHH-IHHHHHHTCHOO! IHHHTCHOO! HIhHH-HIHHH-HIHHHHHITCHOO! So itchy, I — HAAAAASHOO! HAAAAAAASHEW! HAH-HAAAh-haaAaAAAAASCHIEW!” Graham blows his nose furiously after this one, but it doesn’t seem to help; he shoves the tissue into the now half-full pouch on his belt, only to grab another one and hold it hovering a few inches from his nose with one hand, looking dazed. “Wow, seriously, bless you,” Mark says, a little dazed himself. “Thanks, but there’s — there’s no — point,” pants Graham, crimson nostrils flaring again. “They’ll just — heHnhH — keep — keep coming. Once it starts it — it’s really hard to — to — hEhh — hEHHhhHh — HEEEEESHIEW! ESHOOOO! HAAAASHEW, HAAAAASHEW, HUH-HUUUUHSHEW! HEPTCHOO! HEPTCHOO! O-oh my god, p-please ex-eHhh-excuse — ehhh-eHhhHh-EHHHHHHCH! EHHHHCH! EHHHHCH! EHHHHCH! EHHHHHCHOoOoOo!” These last five come so rapidly that they seem to be fighting to get out of his nose first, each half vocalized “EHHHHCH” more desperate and throaty than the last. He blows his nose again, and lets out one last helpless, “Aaasshiewww!” into the tissue before crumpling it up with a sigh. “Bless you,” Mark says stubbornly, though he sees Graham’s argument about it being pointless. This is now, bar none, the single hottest encounter with another human being Mark has ever had, but he’s starting to like this guy, and his allergies look brutal. “Sorry you’re going through this, man; it seems like it’s a nightmare. Can I like… do? Anything? For you?” “It’s okay, I’m — hEhhh — HehHHHh? — oh, it went away. I’m used to it, is what I was going to say. Anyway, you’ve already b-been a lot more helpful than people u-usually are,” Graham says, smiling at him. He hitches again, and laughs ruefully as he grabs another tissue. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be — be using — all your tihhh-iHHHH-ISSSSSHHHHHOOO! ISSHOOO! Oh my god, tissues.” “Personally, I think they’re living up to their glorious purpose,” Mark says. It is a perfectly insane thing to say, and he wishes the minute it hits the air that he could drag it back into his mouth. Luckily, Graham sneezes again at this exact moment, a huge, “HUHHHHHSHOOO!” that obliterates Mark’s horrible sentence. He follows this up with a sniffle, and then fuzzily, says, “What? Sorry, I — I — HAAAAASHEW! God. I missed that.” “I said the tissues are a bribe,” says Mark, which isn’t actually a lot better than his first attempt, but whatever. “So you make the building fix the elevator. I told you, man — that’s what it’s all about for me. I’m Captain Ahab, and this elevator is my big, slow, poorly lit white whale.” “Oh, I’m definitely — d-definitely — HAAAAAASHOO! HAAAAASHOOO! AhHhSHIEW! Definitely m-making them f-fix the elevator,” Graham manages to say. “It’s — it’s c-crazy that th-they’re running it like this, I’m going to — to fine — f-fine the s-shit out of theAAAAASHEW! ASHEW, ASHEW, ASHEW, ASHEW, HAAAAASHEW! Jesus Christ, excuse me. Fine the shit out of them.” He blows his nose again, but then smiles blearily at Mark and says, “No bribery necessary — after getting stuck in here like this, it’ll be my pleasure to bring the h-hammer down. I’ll just have to owe you a favor instead.” Later, Mark will think of all the cool, suave things he could have said in this moment. Things like, “Why don’t you do me the favor of joining me for dinner later?” or “I could use some help right now, actually, with putting your number into my phone,” or even a simple, “How about you just buy me a drink and we call it even?” Any one of those options would be a good choice, a smart choice. A choice that would provide information which might prove helpful vis a vis ever seeing this guy again. What he does say, like a fool, is, “Hey, no, that’s — it’s — whatever, man. They’re just tissues. I told you before: I’m not a monster.” “That’s become very clear,” Graham says, with mock gravity. He’s smiling again, undercutting his affected tone, his eyes crinkled up at the corners. It’s… distracting. Then his expression shifts, and as the next wave of sneezes approaches he gasps, “Oh, damn it, I still — still haAHve to — hAh-HAAAACHOO! HAAACHOO! HAAAACHOO! EHHH-EHHHH-EHHHHSHOOO! EHSHOO, ESHOO, ESHOO, EHHHHHSHIEW! God, I am so sick of sneezing,” he moans, plucking two fresh tissues from the box. “It’s — it’s been — like this all — all — d-d-day — AAAAAAAAAAASHIEW! AAHH-AHHHHHSHIEW! And I r-ran out of — of tiHHssues — and — a-and — AAAAAASHIEW! AAAAAASHIEW! AAAAAAASHIEW! Oh, god, my meds aren’t — aren’t w-working — because of the stupid r-r-raAAAAAAAAASHOO! RAAAAAASHOO! Ugh. The stupid r-ragweed.” He blows noisily into his now rather ragged tissue, crumples it up, and wearily starts to reach for another. “Okay, first of all, I think you should just take the whole box,” Mark says firmly, pushing it into his hands before he can protest. “And secondly, that sounds like a really crap day, man. Why don’t you just go home?” “G-god, thank you, that’s — that’s seriously so nice of you,” Graham says, accepting the tissue box, pulling out a fresh one out, and holding it to his now-running nose. “As for going home, I — I was trying to s-stick it out and finish my d-day, but I do th-think I’m going to have to b-bail once we get off — thIIIIIHHHis — this ehhHh-eHhhHhh-EHHHHHCHOO! EHHHHHCHOO! EHHHHCHOOO! God, excuse me again. Off this elevator.” As if summoned by this phrase, the elevator groans, lurches and starts moving again. Mark panics — he didn’t think this far ahead! He was so absorbed with Graham’s allergy attack, and with Graham himself, that he forgot to think about salient details like the fact that eventually, the elevator would have to start working again. He has very limited time left to get a confirmed name — a phone number — something — But before Mark has time to think of a plan, Graham’s allergies overwhelm him again, pulling him into a rapid fit that doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise. Normally Mark would appreciate the rough, urgent sneezes that repeat in cycles of five: “Hahh-ASHCHIEW! ASHCHIEW! ASHCHIEW ASHCHIEW ASHCHIEW!” But the fit doesn’t let up until the elevator door is opening onto Graham’s selected floor, at which point it’s more or less too late to say anything except — “Bless you,” Mark says sadly, resigning himself to this glorious afternoon becoming only a very fond memory, and not, as he’d been starting to hope, the first day of the rest of his life. Graham stumbles off mid-nose blow, and then stares back at Mark from the other side of the elevator door. For a moment he looks stricken, as though he too meant to exchange more information before this moment arrived. Then his eyes glaze over again, and all he manages to say is, “Ihh-it was nice to — to — to meet — yYAAAAAAAAAASHIEW! HEH-HEH-HYAAAAAAAASHOO!” “Nice to meet you, too,” Mark says, forlorn, as the elevator door closes on the sound of Graham sneezing furiously once more. Mark rides the rest of the way upstairs in a daze; makes himself a fresh cup of coffee in a daze; sits through his meeting in a daze, staring out the window and not paying any attention at all. Several times someone has to physically nudge him because he hasn’t responded to the sound of his own name. It’s not like it’s an important meeting, just a retrospective on their last project, and Mark is honestly barely there. The bulk of his consciousness is still on the elevator, paying rapt, fascinated attention to that terribly allergic man. When the meeting breaks up, Nell, his favorite coworker, corners him on his way out of the conference room and forces him over to her desk. She’s a beautiful little busybody of a woman, with a non-nonsense expression and a thick twist of heavily greying hair, who mentored Mark his first year here. They’ve become good friends, and though Mark is now technically senior to her, neither one of them would ever do anything so gauche as acknowledge it. “What’s with you?” she demands, hands on her hips. “Are you already getting sick again? That would be fast, even for you.” “No,” Mark says, “I just — well. Honestly? I got stuck in the elevator with this insanely hot guy on my way here, and I cannot stop thinking about it.” Nell squeals with the delight of a woman who has been happily married with children for the better part of two decades, and thus must live vicariously through the fresh romances of the (relatively) young. “Ooooh! Amelia and I met in an elevator, you know — “ “No you didn’t,” says Mark, rolling his eyes. He’s had dinner with Nell and Amelia many times, and knows the story. “You met at a book signing.” “Well, there was an elevator nearby,” Nell says with a wave of her hand, as though Mark is quibbling over trifling details. “And she got off it — or maybe I did — anyway, who cares? That’s ancient history: I want the news. Tell me everything.” Mark definitely does not tell her everything. But he does tell her most of it, just… neglecting to mention the sneezing parts. Everything he says is true: the man was a building inspector, and very nice, and very hot, and definitely at least bisexual, and they got to talking, and it seemed to go well, and then Mark forgot to get his name or number or any identifying details at all. “I am God’s perfect idiot,” he declares when he finishes relating this, putting his head down on her desk in despair. “Why didn’t I just ask him out? Shoot my shot? God, I’m just realizing I never even told him my name. He was too hot, that’s the problem! You can’t think around a guy that hot; it’s not possible.” “Ew, speak for yourself,” Nell says, obviously joking. She pats him jovially on the shoulder, and adds, “C’mon, kid, cheer up. Sure, it was a bit stupid to let him walk off like that, but you know what? If it’s meant to be, you’ll find him again. Wait and see.” “Maybe,” Mark mutters sullenly into the desk, but he doubts it. * This is a work of art🙇🏼♂️ Link to comment
hetchiew Posted January 7, 2023 Share Posted January 7, 2023 One of the best snz fics ever written! Link to comment
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