Author: magalina PM
Complete. Mark and Sandy hated each other, so when Mark hit Sandy with his car -which was totally not his fault- they were not exactly thrilled to be forced to spend all their time together. Well, at least Mark wasn’t. Slash.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Chapters: 26 - Words: 87,429 - Reviews: 397 - Favs: 454 - Follows: 159 - Updated: 06-15-10 - Published: 04-07-09 - Status: Complete - id: 2657024
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Edited in October, 2010.
Okay, I'm sorry I haven't posted anything in so long. Here's a new story for you, dedicated to serialxlain (for helping me so much with it) and unheardmelodies (just because).
Hope you enjoy :)
It wasn't an unusual sight, that of Mark Wallace and Sandy Rogers rolling around on the ground, limbs flailing, fists connecting with flesh, and resounding with sickening smacks and thuds. Their friends were quite used to it by now and so they waited until the first sign of blood on someone's face or knuckles to attempt to break them apart. Of course they never dared to get too close or they might end up on the ground too, with two boys rolling around on top them. That was how things worked with Mark and Sandy: the rest of the world appeared to turn invisible when they held each other's gaze or spat insults across a room.
John sighed as he leaned against the fence near the school's entrance and watched his best friend try to shove dirt down Sandy Rogers' throat. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest and he wished he wasn't so cheap and would buy gas for his car instead of having to wait around until Mark was done trying to imprint Sandy's face onto the hard concrete of the entrance's stairs. He wished the same thing almost every afternoon. Gas prices were scandalous.
He watched, bored, how Sandy sat on Mark's stomach, the front of Mark's T-shirt clenched in tight fists. Mark was hissing something near his face, his hands on Sandy's chest, like he was going to push him off any minute now. Maybe when he was done hissing, John guessed. Sandy knocked his head against the floor every so often, hissing his own response to whatever Mark was saying and John cringed every time. He was the one who would have to hear Mark complain about the bump on his head and how "that stupid asshole should get over himself and go die in a pit" on his ride back home.
A small audience had gathered around them and John wondered if he was the only one already bored out of his mind about this. He glanced to his left where Sandy's friends were waiting and he stared openly, for it was still warm and they were wearing short shorts and John loved short shorts on Sandy's leggy friends. They didn't notice him; they were too busy waiting for one of those moments when Mark and Sandy broke apart to catch their breath or scream into each other's faces. One of those moments when they weren't grabbing or pushing or punching so they could wiggle their way between them and drag Sandy away. John liked to watch Sandy's friends walk away very much.
Sandy was an okay guy most of the time, as long as he wasn't in contact with Mark. John didn't like that he was always, always the first one walking away while Mark stood and panted and cursed. It annoyed him, though he knew his friend was always the one starting the fights. He felt it was his duty as best friend to be on his side no mater what. No matter that Sandy Rogers and Mark Wallace had been fighting since, probably, they could remember. And John was almost sure Mark started their very first fight too. John hadn't known them back then, but he knew his friend and he knew he could act over the top even for the smallest thing. John had learned to accept that and he wished Sandy would too. He wished Mark could just learn to ignore him.
Their fights usually followed a pretty simple pattern. The scenery changed but the facts were the same almost every time. One of them would walk by, glance into the other's direction and spit some insult or inappropriate comment, usually not directly aimed at the other but loud enough for him to hear (sometimes even a look was enough). This could go on for a while, depending on Mark's tolerance that day, then he would throw the first punch and they would end up like they were now, tangled together in the dirt and with a few more bruises to add to their collection. Mark had one on his left temple since the beginning of summer break that hadn't entirely faded yet because Sandy knocked his fist on it every other day.
John glanced over at them again. Mark was gripping Sandy's hair and pulling his head back in an obviously painful angle while the other boy was still straddling his waist and trying to pry his hands off. John saw, out of the corner of his eye, how one of Sandy's friends sat on the ground with a tired huff.
"Hey, Spot!" she called in a fed up tone and John closed his eyes, this was just going to make everything worse. "Think you'll let go of my friend any time soon? I have a curfew!"
John opened his eyes just in time to catch Mark throwing one last punch at Sandy's face that ended up just scraping his jaw as the boy backed away and rolled off him. Mark's face was dark red as he stood up and he was glaring at the girl who had yelled at him. John was sure that if Sandy hadn't pushed him out of the way that moment, making him lose his footing and almost fall back down, he would have leaped at her. After all, she had called him That Name. No one was allowed to do that. The only one who used it on a regular basis (and probably had been the first to come up with it) was Sandy, and it always ended up badly.
Great. Now Mark was going to be in an even worse mood. John needed to buy gas for his car.
As predicted, Sandy walked over to his two friends as if nothing had happened while Mark stood in the middle of a retreating crowd, panting and still very red in the face, his eyes narrowed to thin, silver slits. His clothes and hair were almost entirely covered in dust as he watched fixated, his gaze never wavering, at how Sandy helped his friend up and walked away towards the bike racks, one girl on each side. John kinda, almost felt sorry for his friend. He always did after these situations. He waited, knowing better than to try to approach him right away, until Mark started to slowly make his way towards him.
He was looking down, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and shuffling his feet, making dust cloud up.
John didn't understand Mark's weird complexes. He also didn't really know his history with Sandy Rogers, since bringing him up to Mark was a stupid, suicidal idea and no one he knew was sure how it had all started either. Most of the time he thought it was ridiculous, but Mark took it so seriously he found it hard not to kinda hate Sandy too, sometimes. Especially when he walked away like that.
Mark finally made it to where he was standing and John tossed him his backpack without saying a word. He caught it and threw it over his shoulder.
Mark growled what could have been either a thank you or a curse, his face furrowed and angled down and to the side. John rolled his eyes. Mark's overly freckled face was still red and his dark hair looked grey and dull, covered in dirt. John resisted the weird urge to ruffle it; he didn't want a black eye.
"Let's go." Mark said.
John sighed again. He'd much rather have the angry, bitchy Mark driving him than the gloomy, quiet one.
He really needed to buy gas for his car.
Mark was seething as he dropped John off at his house. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel but he tried to keep his face emotionless. His brow was only slightly furrowed; his mouth was firmly set but not scrunching up on itself. And his teeth and jaw weren't even hurting that much from clenching them. He was getting better at this acting nonchalant thing Rogers seemed to be so damn good at.
"Don't do anything crazy," John said before stepping out of the car.
"What would I do?" Was Mark's response as he reached out to close the door before John could slam it.
"I don't want to give you any ideas…. Just go straight home; I'll call you later to see if you got there alright," he said, sticking his head through the open window and leaving smudges on it. Mark resisted the urge to close it over his neck.
"I've enough with one mother, John," he grunted instead.
"No, I really don't think so." As if on cue, the bump on the back of his head throbbed. Mark narrowed his eyes, his upper lip curling up in annoyance and John backed off, his hands in front of him, pacifying. "I'll see you tomorrow then."
Mark waited until John had closed his front door behind him to drive off and let out a string of curses. Now that he was finally alone he pressed two fingers to the stupid bruise on his temple, keeping one hand on the wheel. It was hurting again. He traced a path to the back of his head and touched lightly where the flesh was swollen and warm. He cursed again when a shot of pain burst through his skull but at least his fingers had come off free of blood.
That was one small victory, last week he had managed to make Rogers' nose bleed so bad that his slutty friends had thrown a hissy fit. One of them had actually slapped him. Luckily it had been in a hallway during classes and no one had been there to witness it. Aside from his sister, Mark had never been so close to hitting a girl before. Not since the third grade, at least. But before he could even take a step towards her, Rogers had tackled him to the floor and he had forgotten about the girl until that afternoon, when she had called him That.
Mark stopped at a red light, silently cursing the genius that had bothered to put traffic lights in this part of town, probably just to piss him off further. He stretched his arms before him and made a face at his stupid freckles. His skin wasn't even light enough to have so many. Rogers' skin was light; hell, he had been practically translucent when they were kids. He spent plenty of time out in the sun, riding his stupid bike all over town, so why didn't he have any freckles? All Rogers got was that damned tan... It wasn't fair. Mark was going to run that bike over one day. Hopefully with Rogers still on it.
Movement in his rearview mirror made him snap his head up and – as if Mark had actually conjured him – there was that idiot Rogers, pedaling towards him with the slut that had called Mark That sitting on the handles. Mark started to feel his rage from earlier bubble up from deep within him. His whole body started tensing up and if his knuckles had been white against the wheel before, the skin could actually tear now.
He thought about stepping on the gas and leaving but he didn't want to give Rogers the satisfaction. Besides, John's words were dancing in his head. Mark was practically an adult; he didn't need his friend to go around acting like a mother hen every time Rogers stepped into the picture. This was a good time to practice the nonchalant thing.
He watched as Rogers advanced slowly, the bike wavering a bit under the girl's weight. Mark hoped they toppled over. Maybe Rogers could crack his skull against the curve and see how he liked it. They didn't fall, though. Instead, Rogers turned into a driveway that Mark assumed was the girl's. He hunched over the car door to watch trough the side mirror. A moment later Rogers appeared on the road again. Okay, now Mark would straighten up and keep his eyes ahead. He wouldn't say anything or even acknowledge Rogers' presence. He would stay cool.
Well, he got to the straightening up part alright. Just as he was sitting again Rogers went by, leaving him behind, confused and pissed all over again.
"What the-?" He snapped his eyes up just in time to see the light change from green, to yellow to red. Exactly how many times had the light changed while he had been watching Rogers? And what the fuck? He had completely ignored him, he hadn't even looked his way. Fuck, Mark hated him.
Mark didn't bother to wait this time; he yanked the car into motion and turned to the left the first chance he got. He wasn't going to risk running into the stupid asshole again; he might end up really running him over. Not that he would feel terribly bad about it. Or at all, really. Okay, maybe he could try and drive by him. Maybe Rogers would give him an excuse – any excuse. Or maybe he could find him off that damn bike some day and just run over his feet. Crutches would slow him down the next time he tried anything with him.
He was driving up his street and, in his defense, he was pretty distracted picturing Rogers' pained expression to notice he was passing by Mr. White's house. He saw the dog when it was too late – the crazy Pit-bull that liked to run after him every time he drove by. The dog threw itself at the car and Mark veered out of the way just in time. Half a second later and that stupid dog would have been history. Then he heard the bump and the screech, like metal scraping against metal, and he saw, flicking his eyes to the right, a mop of golden curls disappearing out of view.
An under the car.
By reflex he stepped on the brakes and didn't even care about the horrible sound the poor engine made. The car jerked and stopped and Mark wasn't sure if he had actually ran something or (fuck, no) someoneover. He sat still, his heart hammering in his chest and his hands still clenching the wheel. With his neck stiff and his head craned to the right he sat waiting for something to appear in the window. A few horrible seconds passed and Mark gulped and tried to relax. He didn't dare stick his head out to see. He slowly opened the door and, even slower, got out of the car. He couldn't even hear the dog barking in the background since his ears were humming so loudly.
His breathing was rough and his throat was closing up, God, he hadn't just-
He rounded the still running car and peered around it, holding onto the warm hood and for a second he thought his legs were going to give out. A few feet back, thrown across the pavement were a now useless blue bike and a very unconscious Sandy Rogers.