Archive of Our Own ^beta

[01 July 2014]

The first time Mark Bryant meets Oliver Ritz, he tastes ozone in the back of his throat.  

Mark follows Peter McCarthy through the halls of the DOD silently, frantically trying to take in everything he can as they walk. Director McCarthy is pointing out landmarks as they pass them - a research lab here, somebody official’s office there, the breakroom - and Mark is trying his best to keep up, but he has a funny feeling he’s going to get lost at least ten times before he fully gets used to his new job. 

“I’ll introduce you to some of your team members as we go,” McCarthy says, looking back at Mark, and Mark tries desperately to smile and pretend he’s not having a terribly hard time keeping up with McCarthy’s long legs. McCarthy seems to travel at the speed of light as he walks through the sterile white hallways of the Department of Defense’s biological engineering building, and it’s all Mark can do to try and keep up. 

“We hire only the best here at the D-O-D, as I’m sure you’re aware, Byron-”

“Mark,” Mark huffs out, struggling for breath. “I, uh, prefer Mark, actually, sir.” 

“Of course you do, Byron,” McCarthy says, and Mark tries to withstand the urge to roll his eyes in front of his direct superior. “Anyhow, we’ll get to introductions further on. You’ll report directly to Dr. Wilson, she will be assigning you all projects, and you will go directly to her if you have any issues whatsoever. I think you’ll find that she’ll be perfectly accommodating.” 

Mark smiles and nods, attempting to commit the name to memory, though at the moment so much information is being given to him that he’s not sure he even knows which way is up. He hasn’t felt this discombobulated since his first semester of college, and he feels just as small and unimportant now as he did then, despite the fact that he’s literally been given his dream job. He knows people would kill to be in his shoes, but right now all he can think is that he never wanted it in the first place. 

“And of course,” McCarthy says, and Mark snaps himself back to reality. No use dwelling on what-ifs and could-have-beens, he tells himself sternly. Pay attention.

“Here’s where you’ll be working!” McCarthy announces with a grand gesture, and Mark peeks in through the glass door before him. This lab really is state of the art - big screens, microscopes, all the chemical engineering equipment his professors could have dreamed of - and Mark can’t help but be impressed despite himself. He stops to take it all in for a brief moment, but can’t stand still for too long as McCarthy has already scanned his card through the ID scanner and is now pressing his hand to the biometric scanner on the wall. 

“We’ll get you all set up with biometrics once we’re done with orientation,” McCarthy is saying, opening the door with a flourish, but Mark is too busy taking in the bright lights reflecting off of stainless steel to answer, and then-

Ozone. Sweet, inhumanly clean, almost like the feeling of a wire being cut in the back of Mark’s throat. It’s jarring and pungent as the taste wafts over his senses, leaving Mark completely blindsided.

He doesn’t know who this man is - this tall, heavyset man with olive skin and glasses, the hint of a smirk on his face - but he knows what he is. 

This man is atypical.  

“And this, of course, is Oliver Ritz. You and Ritz will be sharing this space for the duration of your time here at the DOD, Byron.” McCarthy levels a look at the atypical - no, at Oliver - and smiles. His smile is cold, almost reptilic. “Ritz, play nice.”

“I always do, Director,” Ritz snarks back at McCarthy. He seems deceptively at ease, considering the warning he’d just been given, and Mark eyes the other man appraisingly. He certainly looks like he knows what he’s doing. 

It takes him a moment to realize that Oliver is holding out his hand. Mark takes it and shakes, still feeling relatively small, as Oliver introduces himself. 

“Oliver Ritz. Nuclear Engineering. University of Michigan.” 

Oliver drops his hand as quickly as he’d grasped it, and Mark blinks, unsure of how to respond to Oliver’s words. His tone is sharper than a knife, and it cuts through Mark like he’s made of butter. 

“Uh… Mark. Bryant. Biochemical Engineering, Emory. It’s, uh, nice to meet you?”

“Is it?” Oliver asks, one eyebrow raised, and Mark hates how good snide looks on this man who so clearly thinks he is better than Mark. Everything about Oliver Ritz makes Mark uneasy, and for some reason Oliver both seems to know that fact and seems to derive an inhumane amount of pleasure from it.  

“I suppose it’s fine to meet you as well,” Oliver continues after a beat, looking down his nose at Mark, “I expect you to work quietly if we are to be sharing a workspace. I don’t do well with interruptions, Bryant, and you’ll find that I am not a good person to displease.” 

Mark blinks again. Is this guy for real? 

Oliver has turned away from him at this point. He doesn’t seem to think Mark is worth a second more of his time, returning instead to whatever he’d been working on when they’d entered, but the taste of ozone is once again in the back of Mark’s throat and this time it’s too heady to ignore. 

“You’re-” He starts, then pauses, unsure. If he’s wrong- if he’s just jumping to conclusions-

“I’m?” Oliver repeats, raising an eyebrow again. It makes Mark feel lower than a bug under Oliver’s shoe. “Yes, Bryant, what am I?”

For a second, Joan’s voice rings in his ears, an echo of the words she’d told him the first time he’d accidentally used one of her friends’ telekinesis in front of them. Be careful, she’d warned him. Stay safe. Remember, you never know who could possibly hurt you. Trust no one. 

Mark tries to shake the thought of his sister away but is as unsuccessful as ever.

“It’s Mark,” Mark bites out instead. He doesn’t want to be known by his parents’ name here. This job is meant to be his fresh start; he’s reinventing himself, removing himself from beneath his parents’ iron fist. “Please, call me Mark.”

“I think not, Bryant,” Oliver says dismissively. “It is worthwhile to uphold professionalism in a workplace, after all. We wouldn’t want you getting too… comfortable. ”

Mark stares at him, ozone burning the back of his throat, speechless. He should respond - he knows he should - but he has no idea what he could possibly say to Oliver- no, to Ritz - in return.

“Come along then, Byron!” Director McCarthy says cheerfully, and Mark starts. He’d almost forgotten the other man was in the room. 

“We’ll get you started on your paperwork, and then you’ll be free to set yourself up in here and get started. I’m sure you and Ritz will get along just swimmingly.”

Mark follows McCarthy out of the room without another word. 

He doesn’t think he could come up with something else to say even if he tried. 

[2006]

Mark Bryant is seventeen years old when he decides to give up on his dreams.

When he looks back on it later, he always thinks about that day with just the faintest touch of humor; after all, he would never have gotten to where he is now without changing the paths he’d thought he was meant to walk. His life would have been unrecognizable to how it is now; he can’t even begin to fathom to what extent he would have been a completely different person. 

In another life, Mark Bryant is a photographer. In another life, Mark Bryant is an artist. 

In another life, Mark Bryant stands up to the people meant to support him most, and tells his parents that they don’t get a say in his happiness. He tells them that he will be happy, and they get no say.

This is not that story. 

[August 4th, 2014]

It’s been about a month since Mark started at the DoD, and even though it hasn’t been long, he’s fairly sure that Oliver Ritz hates him.

He’s still not sure how he’d accomplished that one. Oliver is brutally quick and efficient, with absolutely no patience for anyone’s bullshit, especially not Mark’s, but Mark has tried his best to keep his head down in the lab and stay out of Oliver’s way.

“It’s not your fault,” one of his coworkers had informed him over lunch in the beginning. Angeline was tall and slender, with locs down to her waist. She’d taken one look at Mark and immediately adopted him, making sure Mark took lunch breaks and didn’t stay too late at work every day even when he wanted to. “He’s like that with everyone in the beginning. Ritz is...” 

She’d trailed off then, not bothering to finish her sentence, but Mark had understood. Oliver was hard to please. 

“I heard someone stole his research once, in grad school,” another one of Mark’s coworkers had added, gesturing at Mark with his fork. “That’s why he’s so anal about who’s in his space.”

Mark had sucked in a shocked gasp, ready to respond, when Oliver himself had walked into the breakroom, and the three of them had immediately changed the conversation. It had given Mark enough to think about, though, and he’d been resolved to become Oliver’s friend ever since - a vigorous task if he’s ever had one. Mark’s learned Oliver’s coffee order (black, one sugar, because of course,) invited Oliver to have lunch with him, even offered to help clean up Oliver’s side of the lab after one of Oliver’s experiments had gone horribly wrong a couple of days ago; nothing had worked. 

It’s lunchtime already, and it’s been exactly the same as always today - Mark had brought Oliver coffee, Oliver had hummed in acknowledgment, they’d worked in silence for a few hours before Angeline had come to collect Mark for lunch. Mark had grabbed his bagel from his bag and moved to follow Angeline; to his surprise, Oliver had also followed them out, seating himself in the corner of the breakroom and tucking quietly into something from a green Tupperware. Mark and Angeline had settled themselves on the opposite side of the room, taking over one of the round tables for themselves. 

“So how’s it going?” Angeline asks, pulling Mark’s attention away from the other man. “I hear you guys had a bit of an incident in the lab the other day.”

Mark huffs out a laugh, picking at the paper from his bagel. 

“Yeah,” he replies, “that’s one way of putting it. I was certain Oliver’d burnt his face off, the way that flame just-” he makes a plooshhh sound and gestures with the hand not holding the bagel, mimicking the way the flames had leapt at Oliver’s face. Angeline explodes into giggles, hiding her face in her panini. 

“You should have seen his face!” Mark laughs, letting himself get into retelling the story. “He just looked so-”

“What are y’all talking about?” A new voice asks, cutting Mark off, and Mark groans inwardly. 

“Hello to you too, Andy,” Angeline says. Her voice has lost its bright laughter in favor of cold ice, but the nuclear chemist doesn’t seem to notice as he slides himself into the chair next to her. Angeline shifts her chair away discreetly. 

“Heard y’all had a bit of an incident in the lab,” Andy says to Mark, unknowingly echoing Angeline’s words from earlier. “Unfortunate, that. Heard ol’ Ritz Crackers still has all his eyebrows, though!” 

Mark doesn’t need to be looking at Oliver to know the face he’d be pointing down at his leftovers; Andrew has a funny way of saying just the wrong things at the worst times, and he somehow never fails to piss Oliver off. Especially when Andy’s trying to be funny. 

“- super hot babe last night,” Andy is saying as Mark tunes back in, and Mark has to bite back a sigh. Andy gets like this sometimes - he's a chronic oversharer who just loves to talk about his various “conquests” and accomplishments both inside and outside of the lab, and when he gets going, it’s nearly impossible to get him to stop.

Oliver hates him.  

To a degree, Mark can understand why Oliver seems to detest the other man with everything in his being - Oliver has no time for slackers or people who aren’t going to do their work, and Andy tends to run his mouth more than the machines in the lab - but for the most part, Mark just likes to watch Oliver’s face when Andy pisses him off. Oliver can make the most glorious of faces when he’s mad.

Andy’s still talking, though, so Mark begrudgingly tears his thoughts away from Oliver and turns back to the conversation. Andy’s still talking about this woman he’d met at a bar somewhere, who seems to be-

“A photographer?” Mark asks, cutting off Andy’s monologue. “Did you say she-”

“Yeah!” Andy says enthusiastically, shoving a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth and chewing as he talks. “God, she was telling me about some room in her basement, uh, a dark-thing? Sounds pretty sexy to me.”

Across from him, Angeline looks visibly uncomfortable, and Mark's protective instincts flare. Angeline is good at hiding her emotions, but Mark can tell that she'd rather be anywhere else right now, and Mark can relate. Andy wiggles his eyebrows at Mark conspiratorially, and Mark has to bite back a sigh.

“It’s a dark room, ” he says instead, feeling a bit like he’s talking to a toddler. “And I wouldn’t suggest getting naked in there either. Too many chemicals around that are likely to burn your…” he trails off for a moment, flicking his eyes down to the table by Andy’s chest and then back up to his face, “... hands.” 

Angeline snickers, and to Mark’s surprise, he hears a small huff from the opposite corner of the room. Oliver Ritz, apparently, has been paying attention. 

Andy flushes, stammering something about being so good the woman wouldn't even notice, and Mark smirks. 

"Have fun passing out from inhalation of chemical vapors, Andy," Mark says as he gathers the remnants of his lunch together. Angeline follows his lead, throwing out the wrappers from both of their lunches and collecting her bag from the chair next to Andy. "We had a girl pass out in the darkroom in high school, she didn't come back for a week."

He looks down at Andy, then smirks. 

"Actually," he says, “come to think about it, you’d probably be fine on the chemical inhalation thing. Wouldn’t be in there long enough anyways.” 

Oliver snorts, actually snorts, and Mark feels a spark of triumph in his chest. He knows it’s probably a little mean, but he no longer wants to be around Andy. His limited amount of patience has worn out. The comment doesn’t seem to have registered with Andy anyways. 

Mark looks at Oliver and jerks his head towards the door. "Coming, Oliver?"

And Oliver looks at Mark, really looks at him for the first time, and smiles with something that looks almost like respect in his eyes. 

“Very well, Bryant,” he says, and even though he still sounds like he’s got a stick up his ass, there’s the slightest hint of a smile on his face. “After you.”

Mark leads the way out the door, Oliver and Angeline behind, and for the first time since he’d started at the DOD, he feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest. 

[October 2010]

Rain pounds on the lab windows as Mark focuses on the microscope in front of him. The lab is empty, most of the other assistants in Doctor Vega’s lab long gone, but Mark is committed to finishing this stage of his project before he leaves for the night. He’s been at it for hours already, trying different combinations of chemicals as he fights to get the bacterium in front of him to do what he wants, damnit. 

“How long have you been here for, Mark?”

Doctor Vega’s voice cuts through the quiet whirring of the lab machines, bright and lilting like a robin on the wind. She’s laughing at him, he knows she is, but it’s lighthearted, and he’s already grinning as he looks up.

“Bit late for you to be on campus, Doc,” he says in response, trying to see if she’ll let him sidestep the question. Testing Vega’s restraint is all-too-familiar to Mark - the older woman is both his academic advisor and his thesis advisor, and the fact that she hasn’t killed Mark yet speaks more to her patience than his abilities. 

“I asked you a question, Mark,” she says, eyeing him levelly. He’s known her for close to two years now; she’s not going to let this go. 

“Uh…” He says, trying desperately to buy himself a moment before he has to answer. “What time is it?”

From Vega’s sigh, it’s clearly the answer she was expecting, though not the one she’d wanted to hear. 

“Mark,” she says, and he winces. Her tone is soft, almost motherly, and he wants to shove her away at the same time that he wants to fall into it. He looks back down at the microscope instead, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. He can feel his cheeks warming. 

“I just-” 

“It’s alright, Mark.” Vega sits down on the lab stool opposite him, folding her legs under her primly and gesturing to the stool he’s been neglecting for the last few hours. Mark can’t help but grunt as he sits down across from her. He hadn’t noticed how much his legs hurt after all that standing. 

He looks across the table, over blinking screens and glass beakers, and takes in the sight of the professor he’s formed such a close relationship with over the past few years. Vega is young by university professor standards, maybe in her late 40s, and Mark knows more than one student thinks she’s attractive. Her bronze skin and sleek hair are always perfect, and the various pantsuits she wears to lectures and lab meetings make her look polished and powerful. 

Mark had first met Doctor Vega in his Intro to Organic Chemistry Lecture. She’d stood at the front of the class, eyes roving around the room, and when she opened her mouth to speak it was like the whole room held their breath to listen. Mark had never seen a professor command so much respect, especially not in an introductory course; he’d spent every minute he could at her office hours, asking increasingly complex questions until Vega had offered him a spot in her lab. 

Three semesters later, he hasn’t looked back once. 

“-talk to you, actually,” Professor Vega is saying, and Mark snaps out of his thoughts, guiltily. 

“Hm?” He says, not quite sure what he’s responding to. 

“You’re applying to grad schools now, aren’t you?” 

Mark nods, glancing back at the microscope beside him. It’s an important part of his dissertation, after all, this research, and if he doesn’t get it done-

“-offer you a letter of recommendation.” 

“Professor?” He asks, almost hesitant. Mark isn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but it had sounded like she’d just offered-

“I’d like to write your recommendation letter for graduate school, Mark,” Professor Vega says, and Mark’s breath catches in his throat. He’d been thinking of asking her, but he knew her policy on rec letters was strict, and he honestly hadn’t considered himself worthy. 

“But,” Vega continues, and Mark can’t breathe. There’s a but? 

“I have one condition.” 

“What is it, Professor?” Mark says, almost scared of the answer. 

“An old friend of mine is an admissions officer at Emory’s Coulter Department of Biomedical Engineering. I want you to apply.”

“Professor, with all due respect,” Mark says, choking around the lump in his throat, “I’m a chemistry major with a biology minor… I’ve never done engineering in my life! Why in the world would Emory’s biomedical department want me?” 

Vega smiles, her eyes no longer on Mark but instead looking at something Mark can’t quite see. Something tickles the back of Mark’s neck and he jumps, certain a bug of some sort has just landed on him, but there’s nothing there. Nothing but a tickle and the vague smell of smoke. 

“Just trust me, Mark,” Vega says, eyes still fixed somewhere above Mark’s left eye. “Just trust me.”

Mark does. 

[25 September 2014]

It’s a bomb. Their next project, the one they’ve just been assigned - this “top-secret” assignment Mark and Oliver have been given in collaboration with some company called Helion- it’s a bomb.

It’s just a bomb.

Or, well. There’s no such thing as “just” a bomb, not really, and this one isn’t “just” anything, not with the way it’s meant to be a combination of nuclear implosion and fission- this is a bomb that could put Hiroshima to shame. The Manhattan Project has nothing on this, not really. 

The idea seems simple enough, at first - they’re looking into implosion, into engineering a reaction that will fold into itself instead of exploding outwards. It’s almost too simple.

Mark had been weirdly good at inorganic chemistry in college. Something about it - about envisioning how molecules clicked together, like fitting the pieces of a puzzle together, had made sense to him in ways it never had in high school. He'd gotten one of those fancy notebooks with the octagonal pages as a gift his sophomore year from Joan, and had spent hours pouring over it, fitting carbon and hydrogen atoms together until he could do it in his sleep. 

Maybe that's why Oliver's ability makes so much sense to him. It's not like he can see the molecules, per se, but he can feel them – feel the attractions between them – and he understands. 

He thinks he understands why Oliver uses his ability so often when they're working, almost as if he doesn't notice it. This feeling of power, of structures clicking together just right to get exactly what he wants - well. It's borderline addictive.

This, though… this feels a lot more complex than anything he’d worked on, even in graduate school.

“Okay, back it up, say this again,” he says to Oliver, who’s watching Mark attempt to process with a wry smirk on his face. Smarmy asshole, he’s probably enjoying watching Mark struggle. “They want us to do what?” 

“It’s not that hard to understand, Bryant,” Oliver says, tapping his fingers idly on the table. “One would think you’re able to understand basic instructions, seeing as you do have a masters and all that.”

“Right,” Mark says faintly, scrambling frantically to keep up with Oliver’s definition of ‘not that hard.’ 

(He barely even notices the usage of his last name at this point; Oliver’s never going to call him Mark, it’s “too unprofessional” or whatever, but ‘Bryant’ is at least better than ‘Byron’. The first time Oliver had seen his employee badge, he’d laughed for five minutes straight; Mark, who had never liked his name in the first place, had barely managed to keep it together.)

“I just…” Mark says, looking anywhere but at Oliver… “What’s the point? I mean, we already have bombs large enough to blow up Russia, why are they so invested-”

“Why are you questioning them, Bryant?” Oliver snaps. “It’s a job, we’re paid not to ask questions.” 

“We’re scientists, Oliver-”

“Ritz, please, Bryant, it’s not that hard to-”

“We’re paid to ask questions, Oliver.”  

Oliver just looks at him, pushing his glasses farther up his nose. His next words are practically hissed through his teeth, the furtive glance he throws at the corner of the room the only indication that Oliver’s feeling the pressure. 

“Listen, Bryant, I respect your work and frankly, I don’t want to have to be assigned another partner, so if you care about your employment at all, I suggest you learn what kinds of questions are appropriate to be asking, am I understood?”

Mark blinks once, stunned. 

“I just think-”

“I don’t care what you JUST THINK, Mark!” Oliver hisses. “I like this job, I like the pay and the freedom to do research that I want to do for the most part, and I don’t want to lose it, so if you wouldn’t mind-”

“Mark?”

Mark’s innocent question stops Oliver in his tracks, and the other man blinks, clearly thrown by the word. “What-”

“You called me Mark,” Mark says. He’s fighting to keep the smug smirk he’s repressing from showing in his voice, but if Oliver’s sour face is any indication, he’s not really succeeding. “Not Bryant, not Byron, you called me-”

“Yes, yes, I do sometimes get things right, don’t expect it to happen again-”

“Aww, Oliver,” Mark singsongs, letting the grin he’s been repressing break onto his face. For a moment, there is no bomb, or Helion, or government job ordering Mark to do things he doesn’t think are smart. It’s just him and Oliver teasing each other while various lab machines buzz in the background. “You do pay attention!” 

Oliver just grumbles and turns back to his workbench; Mark grins at the back of Oliver’s head and tries to ignore the butterflies in his stomach, turning to his own workbench for want of something to do with his hands.

Ozone, he reckons, has never tasted so sweet. 

[April 2006]

"So what're you gonna do?" Josh asks, peering up at Mark from where he's splayed out on his stomach on Mark's bed. The comics he’d been paging through idly lay splayed around his head like a paper halo, read and reread before being discarded. 

Mark looks back at him from where he stands by his closet and shrugs. The jacket he’d been attempting to hang slumps to the floor, forgotten, as Mark sighs in defeat. 

“Not go to art school, I guess,” Mark shrugs dejectedly. “It’s not like I can afford to pay for art school on my own.”

“You could always take a gap year,” Josh suggests. He flips over so he’s lying on his back, glasses nearly falling off his face, and Mark has to bite back a laugh. God, he loves his best friend. “Take some time off, work as a barista or something, make some money, then pay your own way through art school.”

“My parents would literally disown me, J,” Mark says, throwing one of the shirts from the basket at Josh’s face. Josh, annoyingly, catches it, then flips over on Mark’s bed to refold it. 

“I’m just saying,” he says, eyes carefully fixed on the shirt. “You have options.”

Mark sighs, turning away from his closet to flop on the floor, running one hand through his hair nervously. “Do I, though?” 

Josh looks at him, and Mark’s never been more glad to have a best friend who knows him as well as Josh does. He thinks of dancing with Josh at prom, holding the other boy close, and even though his feelings for Josh have never been anything other than platonic, he feels a strong wave of love rise up in his chest. Josh believes in Mark, truly, wholly, and unconditionally; Mark has no idea what he did to earn himself such a good friend, but whatever it was, he’s grateful he did it. 

Josh is still watching him, waiting for him to continue, and Mark sighs.

“The way I see it,” Mark says, “they’re never going to be okay with their only son being a starving artist, you know? But they’d be even less okay with their swanky rich asshole friends knowing that their son is a disappointment, so it’s either their way or the highway. Literally.” 

“You really think-”

“I know, Josh.” Mark leans his head back against his closet door, staring at the ceiling as he tries to fight back tears. His dreams are slowly slipping away from him, and he knows it. “I know, okay? But I can’t… I can’t fight them on this. It won’t end well for me.”

He sniffs, and Josh slides off the bed to throw his arms around Mark. 

“I… I’m not Joan, you know? I can’t just be content with science, or psychology, or whatever. I… Photography is my thing, you know? I feel like I’m losing part of myself.”

He’s crying for real now, tears running down his cheeks, but Josh only holds him that much closer. They sit in silence for a moment while Mark calms himself, shaky hiccups filling the air.

“I guess… I just have to find a new thing,” Mark says finally. “I…”

Mark turns his head into Josh’s shoulder, unwilling to finish his sentence, but Josh seems to get it. They sit there, on Mark’s floor, surrounded by clean laundry, until it’s time for Josh to go home; Mark falls asleep on the floor that night. 

(The next morning, Mark tells his parents he’s decided to go to Binghamton University. 

He pretends it doesn’t sting when James tells him he’s proud of Mark for making the right decision.)

[19 August 2014]

Oliver has been chuckling at his phone for the last fifteen minutes straight, and if he doesn't stop soon, Mark is going to murder him. 

Mark looks up from his notebook again, cutting his eyes at Oliver as the other man sighs. He’s waiting for his centrifuge to finish rotating, but there’s not much else to do until it does, so he’d decided to go back to one of his first loves - drawing. He’s trying to capture the way the light from the computer screen flits across Oliver’s face, but the other man won’t stop moving.

He watches as Oliver picks up his phone, checks the screen, huffs out a breath, locks his phone again, places it face-down on the desk, and looks back at his computer screen, only to repeat the whole action again not even a minute later. 

"You okay, man?" Mark says finally, breaking the terse silence that's settled between them. 

"Mmm?" Oliver says, clearly still distracted by whatever he sees on his phone. 

"You okay?"

"Oh. Yes, Bryant, I'm fine, thank you," Oliver responds. Mark tries to hide his flinch at being called Bryant, and only barely manages to suppress it. 

"Really?" Mark presses. "Because you're going to end up breaking your phone screen if you keep slamming it down like that." 

Oliver's eyes flick down to his phone and his hand twitches, as if he's trying to suppress the urge to pick it up again. 

"I'm just saying, Ritz, if you need to talk through something, who better to — "

"I'm fine, thank you." 

Mark gets the message. He shuts his mouth and stares back at the centrifuge, willing it to move faster so that he can get away from the awkwardness. The steady buzz of the machine doesn't quite drown out the sound of Mark's heartbeat or the taste of ozone in the back of his throat, but he knows that if he tried hard enough, he could pretend it did. 

The silent stalemate lasts for another moment before Oliver sighs, this time not annoyed but rather resigned, and says, “It’s my mom.”

“Huh?” Mark’s head whips around so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. 

“She wants me to come home for Rosh Hashana,” Oliver says, and Mark holds his breath as if even breathing too loudly will break the spell someone’s cast over this man. Oliver Ritz, voluntarily sharing information? Mark is still somewhat surprised when the other man speaks with him about work stuff, he definitely hadn’t expected personal information.  

“She’s added me and all of my siblings into a groupchat, like peer pressure is enough to convince me to take time off — ”

“You should do it,” Mark says, then cringes. “I mean — ”

Oliver side-eyes Mark for a moment. 

“Oh, I’m fully going to. I already took the time off, it’s just fun to make them beg for it.” He grins, and it’s a sly thing that makes something in Mark’s stomach quiver. 

"Uhhhh," he says a moment too late, realizing that he probably should have responded but not really having a clue what to say. Oliver makes him feel like that a lot — like he's both the dumbest person in the room and the slowest, though the fact that Oliver deigns to work with Mark at all is a compliment if Mark's coworkers are to be trusted. 

Oliver eyes him, that strange smile still fixed on the corners of his mouth. “What, Bryant, not one for messing with your parents? The New Year only happens once a year, you know… Well, this one, anyways.”

“I don’t really… Speak. To my parents. Anymore,” Mark says awkwardly. He’s not sure why he told Oliver that — he certainly hasn’t mentioned it to any of his other coworkers, but Oliver was open with Mark , so Mark feels almost like he owes it to the other man to be open with him, too. “Not since I graduated college, anyways.” 

The moment hangs between them like a string waiting to snap, and Mark glances down at his notebook again, fiddling with his pencil as if it could draw him a map out of this awkward conversation. 

“Anyways,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “This one?” 

Oliver looks at him, cheeks definitely flushed, and despite feeling like he wants the ground to swallow him whole, Mark can’t help but think that Oliver looks… good, like this. Open. Like he’s willing to talk to Mark. He’s definitely still an asshole, Mark thinks, but maybe he’s not actually that bad. 

“Which one, what?” Oliver asks, and Mark snaps out of his thoughts with an abashed cough. 

“You, uh, you said something about, uh… ‘this’ one?” 

“Oh!” Oliver says, smirking a bit. “That was… a bit of an inside joke with myself. There are actually four ‘New Year’s’ in a Jewish year — which I do find to be a bit much at times, who needs a New Year for trees? — but I always did find it kinda funny that —” 

Oliver cuts himself off as if he’s noticed his own rambling, and though he doesn’t apologize, the tips of his ears go bright red. 

“That’s… kinda cool, actually,” Mark says. The centrifuge in front of him finally stops spinning, and Mark retrieves his vials and notebook, not quite holding back a relieved sigh at the possibility of returning to work and escaping whatever weirdness has grown between himself and Oliver. He looks up at Oliver and pauses, unsure of what to say next.

“Yeah, well… You should, uh, tell your mom you’re coming, probably. I’m sure she’d be glad to hear you’re coming home.” 

Mark slips away before Oliver can respond, the taste of ozone and disappointment mingling on his tongue. 

[May 2005]

“ — not do anything with his life, El!” 

The sound of his father’s voice floats out the open window of the Bryants’ two-story suburban home and Mark freezes, hand still outstretched from where he’d been about to unlock the front door. His parents are never home this early, and when they are, it never means anything good — especially not when they’re yelling at each other. 

Especially not when they’re yelling at each other about him. 

“What do you want me to do, James?” Mark’s mother yells back, and Mark’s breath catches in his throat. There’s only one thing in this world that makes his mother sound like that, and it’s standing right in his black and white size-11 converse.

What did I do this time? Mark racks his brain for a moment, dropping his hand to his side to fiddle with the straps of his backpack. He hadn’t broken any appliances lately… hadn’t failed any tests… his report card wasn’t due back for —

Oh. Oh, shit. 

He’d meant to get home in time to intercept that particular envelope from his parents’ hands, the same as he had done every semester since he’d started high school. It isn’t like he’s failing his classes - well, to be fair, he isn’t exactly not failing his classes, either, but they’re always so boring that it wasn’t even worth paying attention! It’s the teachers' faults, really - if they wanted Mark to pay more attention, maybe they should make their classes more interesting. 

" — failing junior year! Joan never had this much trouble in school. What's wrong with him?" 

Mark's father's voice snaps Mark out of his thoughts, and Mark shudders. His father sounds… condescending, yeah, but also like failing a class was the worst thing he could do. 

It’s just English! Is it really such a crime? 

" — 'll talk to him," Mark's mother is saying, and Mark sighs. Of course they'll talk to him — the same talk they always give him, do better and try harder and why can't you be more like Joan —

Mark's grip tightens on the doorknob, and he must lean in too hard, because all of a sudden the knob is twisting underneath him and he's falling forward, weight propelled by his heavy bag and heavier books and —

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad." 

His parents stare at him in shock, as if he hasn't come home from school at the same time every day for the last two years. If he didn't know better, Mark would have thought he'd grown a third head. 

"... Byron," his mother says finally. "Welcome home."

"Hi, Mom," Mark repeats, trying desperately to keep his voice even. His eyes fix on the paper in her hands, on the envelope clasped tightly in his father's grasp. "What's up?" 

"What's up?" his father repeats.  "What's up? Not your grades, Byron, that's for sure."

Mark groans. He's already lost this showdown and he knows it. "It's just English, Dad, and a C isn't — "

"Isn't so bad?" his dad cuts him off. His voice is filled with barely-restrained anger. "You got a C in English, and you're telling me it's not so bad? Joan would never — "

"James," Mark's mother cuts him off, voice steely, placing a hand on Mark's father's shoulder. Mark's father sighs, then shrugs it off. 

"Do you have a plan for your life, Byron?" 

The words — both the underlying accusation that Mark will eventually amount to nothing and the use of Mark's first name, the one he hates more than anything — sting. Mark does have a plan — he's going to art school, for photography or painting or cartooning, somewhere he can be himself. Somewhere he can be happy. 

But that's not what Mark's parents want to hear, and Mark knows it. 

"I do," he says evenly, but his father only laughs. 

"Sure you do," he says, and Mark has to hold back a flinch. "Let me guess. Art school. Do you think you'll make it big, Byron? Think you'll be the next Picasso? The next Da Vinci?" 

James Bryant laughs, and this time Mark can't hold back his flinch. 

"Let me ask you something, Byron," James says, and Mark hates him, Mark hates him. "Let me ask you. Who's paying for this fancy art school of yours, hmm? Who's going to pay for your tuition, your food, and your materials? Is it you, Byron?"

"I — " Mark starts, but his breath catches in his throat. "I — "

"Let me tell you something, Byron," James says, and Mark shrinks back. James looms over him, taller than Mark even after his growth spurt and twice as broad. Mark knows his father would never hit him, but here, standing opposite the man dangling his whole life in front of him on a string, Mark can't help the pit of fear growing in his stomach. 

"Your mother and I aren't going to pay for you to go to art school, Byron. There's no money in that. Either get a real degree, like Joan, or find a way to do it yourself." 

James' hand slaps the envelope down onto the glass table beside the stairs, and Mark can only stare as he watches his father's back retreat. James does not turn back; he does not seem to care that with every step he is crushing Mark's dreams, shattering all of his hopes into bits and pieces. 

Elena steps forward, reaching out her hand, and for a moment Mark thinks his mother is looking to comfort him - but she only hands him the report card from the year.

"Just… think about it, Byron," she says softly, and Mark doesn't know whether to scream or cry or break something or all three. He does nothing, just watches her follow his dad in silence. 

There's nothing left to say, anyways. 

[10 September 2014]

It’s dark outside by the time Mark pushes back from his workbench, back throbbing from hours spent hunched over the pieces of his project. He’s frustrated; none of his ideas are panning out the way he wants them to, and really, all he wants is a break. 

He stretches his back, groaning loudly as the vertebrae snap back into place. The sound seems to startle Oliver out of his trance, and the other man looks up, blinking as though he’s surprised to see Mark still sitting there. He looks a bit like an owl, blinking up at Mark through his rectangular glasses, and Mark feels his heart do something funny in his chest. They stare at each other in silence for a moment before Mark claps his hands together, mind made up. 

“Come on then, Ritz, we’re going out.” 

Oliver’s owlish look turns positively dumbfounded as he turns Mark’s words over in his mind. 

“We are certainly doing no such thing, Bryant,” Oliver says, and Mark almost laughs. Oliver reminds him of Joan, sometimes; deliberately standoffish, like he’s protecting himself from everyone around him, and too focused on his work to even consider anything else. It’s… comforting, almost. 

“Come on, Ritz,” he wheedles, smirking down at Oliver. “You know we deserve it.”

“We haven’t done anything to imply--”

“What, are you scared of going out with me? Think I’m gonna drink you under the table? Well, listen, you may be right, but that’s not something to be upset about, not everyone-”

“Bryant,” Oliver says, and there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. Mark’s stomach flips, and he reminds himself - not for the first time - that it’s definitely a breach of his contract to fall for his snippy male coworker-slash-co-project-head. “Shut up, please.”

“Come on, Oliver,” Mark says, and he knows he’s pushing it, but he has a good feeling about this. He just needs to get Oliver to admit that he wants to join. “What’s a drink between coworkers?” Something shutters behind Oliver’s eyes, and he looks back down at his bench. “Coworkers. Yes, right.” 

Mark opens his mouth, unsure what he did but somehow aware that he did something wrong, but Oliver only coughs once before looking back up at Mark. “Fine, just one drink. And you’re paying, Bryant!” 

“Mark,” Mark says, grinning despite himself. “If I’m buying, you’re going to call me Mark, Oliver, and you’re going to like it. ” 

Oliver heaves a put-upon sigh that seems too big for his body, but Mark can see the beginnings of a smile pulling at his lips. It makes him want to coax that smile into the light. He has a feeling Oliver’s smile is a bit like the sun after a rain shower - distant, uncertain, but warm and bright on your skin once it finally emerges. 

“Very well, Mark, ” Oliver Ritz says, and Mark nearly cheers. “Where are we going, then?”

They end up at a small bar only a five-minute walk from the DOD building. Mark’s been here a few times now, with various groups of coworkers, but as far as he knows, Oliver’s never once joined them.

He holds the door open for Oliver, and Oliver smiles gratefully. He’s softer, somehow, in the dim light of the bar, and it makes Mark’s heart flutter.

He’s accepted his feelings for his prickly coworker at this point, accepted that he’s certainly falling head over heels for this asshole he spends all his time with, but he knows better than to say anything. For one thing, it’s not like they could do anything - sure, Mark’s not the biggest fan of his job, but it’s still his job , and he’d prefer not to get fired for association with a coworker - but there’s also the other thing . 

The fact that Mark knows Oliver’s secret - and the fact that Oliver doesn’t know that Mark’s even aware Oliver has a secret. 

Sometimes, when they’re both engrossed in their work, and the taste of ozone gets to be too much in the back of Mark’s throat, he thinks about confronting Oliver. He thinks about telling him that he knows Oliver is… special , the way Joan’s friend Vanessa had been, the way Doctor Vega had been, but then he thinks back to their first meeting, and he knows there’s no way in hell Oliver would take that well. 

Yes, Bryant, what am I?

Special , Mark wants to say. Amazing. Incredible.

Sometimes, if Oliver is really engrossed in his work, Mark will pull on the threads of Oliver’s ability just to see what happens. It’s like seeing the world through new eyes, like everything is in high-definition focus, and those small surges of power are borderline addictive to Mark. He gets why Oliver likes it so much, likes designing reactions that make sparks fly and matter change; it’s power, pure and simple. 

“-yant? Mark?” 

Oliver’s voice cuts across Mark’s thoughts and he jumps, nearly smacking his head on the door of the bar where he’s still standing there holding it open like an idiot. Suddenly, Mark wishes that someone with some sort of earth-bending ability could just happen to walk by so that Mark could make the ground swallow him whole. 

“Sorry,” he says instead, clearing his throat hurriedly. “Got distracted for a second there, my bad, shall we?”  

He follows Oliver inside, and they grab a booth somewhere between the bar and the dance floor. Oliver is playing with the lip of his whiskey highball, running his finger around the rim of his glass, and staring into the honey-colored liquid like it’ll reveal to him the secrets of the universe; Mark just watches, sipping at his IPA as he tries to think of something to say. 

“...So how was being home?” He says finally, voice cracking around the taste of hops. Oliver looks up sharply, then returns his gaze to the glass in front of him.

“It was… nice, I suppose,” he says finally, and Mark is surprised by the softness of Oliver’s voice. They haven’t been drinking long, but something about this situation has torn down Oliver’s walls in ways he’d never thought possible. “Holidays are always very… loud, in my family.” 

Oliver had gone home for Rosh Hashana the previous week; he’d come back looking worn and tired from the drive, but with an almost delighted air to him that shocked Mark to no end. He’d never seen Oliver so… content, he supposed. 

“Loud?” He presses, trying to keep Oliver talking. The moment hangs between them like spun sugar - sweet and fluffy, so unlike the sharp edges of the walls Oliver keeps around himself while they’re in the lab - and Mark can’t deny the butterflies in his stomach.

Oliver laughs, and it’s almost a snort, ugly and harsh. It startles Mark in the best way, and a grin makes its way onto his face. 

“Yeah, loud,” Oliver emphasizes. “Have you ever been in a room full of Orthodox Jews talking over each other? Everyone’s gotta get their two cents in; it’s like cicada season or some shit. It’s impossible to get a word in edgewise unless you’re yelling.”

Oliver is playing with the napkin on the table in front of him, looking loose and happy. His guard is down, possibly due to the alcohol, and Mark feels the buzz of Oliver's ability resonate in his chest like a hive of bees. Oliver breaks molecular bonds with just his fingertips; Mark watches and pretends he isn't jealous of a napkin.

“Sounds kinda nice,” he says finally, tearing his eyes away from the way Oliver’s fingers roll the soft white paper. 

“Yeah,” Oliver says, eyes distant, and he’s smiling in a way that makes Mark want to grab him by the collar of the stupid blue button-down shirt that makes Oliver’s eyes pop and kiss Oliver completely senseless. He can feel his fingers twitch, yearning to reach out and cover Oliver’s restless hands with his own; ozone burns in the back of Mark’s throat.

For a moment, he thinks about telling Oliver. He thinks about trusting Oliver enough to tell him that he knows Oliver is atypical, knows because he himself is- but he hears Joan’s voice in the back of his head.

Remember. Don’t trust anyone. 

He doesn’t let himself reach out; instead, he lets the ambiance of the bar and Oliver’s voice wash over him and he drowns in it.

“-your family?” Oliver asks suddenly, and Mark startles suddenly, nearly knocking over his glass of fruity cocktail. 

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked if you’re planning on taking off some time to go see your family, Bryant. Thanksgiving is soon, isn’t it?”

“Next month, yeah,” Mark says vaguely, pausing to lick some fruit juice off the back of his hand. Oliver’s eyes seem to follow the movement, but when Mark looks back at him, Oliver is simply watching him, bright eyes burning a hole into Mark. Mark decides it must have been a trick of the light. “What, your family isn’t into Thanksgiving?”

Oliver shakes his head. 

“The holidays are too close together this year, so all of my ‘doctor cousins’-” he makes air-quotes around the words with his fingers, and Mark can’t help but watch the tendons in Oliver’s wrists flex, “-are working Thanksgiving so they could get time off for the High Holidays.”

He regards Mark for a moment longer, eyes steady. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you skirting the question-”

“Oliver-” Mark begins before cutting himself off, and Oliver shrugs, a challenging little smirk on his face. Mark sighs, giving in.

“My family…” He starts, then stops, coughs, and tries again. “My parents and I… we don’t talk much, anymore. Not since…” He trails off, trying to figure out how to fit years of unspoken trauma and unshed tears into one sentence, but Oliver cuts him off before he can.

“It’s okay, Mark,” Oliver says, uncharacteristically soft, and Mark smiles at him around the lump in his throat. Oliver is an asshole, sure, but he’s Mark’s asshole, Mark’s partner . It’s the small moments like this where Mark knows Oliver values his partnership with Mark just as much as Mark does Oliver. 

When they move to leave, Mark glances down at the table where Oliver had been playing with the napkin. In its place rests a single, tiny diamond, surrounded by a pool of water.

Mark only hesitates a moment before slipping it into his pocket.

[May 2005]

"And then he just… left!" Mark yells quietly at the phone in front of him, slapping his hands down on the table in front of him and nearly upending his iced latte. "And Mom just followed, you know how she is, she's never gonna disagree with him to his face, even if she does disagree. And all this over a fucking report card! "

"Language," Joan's voice comes through the phone mildly, words crackly through the speakers. “And I’m sure Mom was going to talk him down as soon as they got away from the fight. You know how she is-”

“A peacekeeper, yeah.” Mark sighs, resting his head on his hand and stirring his latte discontentedly with the straw. “She only ever does it when I’m not around, though…”

“That’s not fair, Byr-”

“Mark, Joanie. Mark. ” 

There’s a moment of silence, then a sigh from across the line. “How come I can’t call you Byron, but you won’t stop calling me that terrible nickname?” 

“Because Byron is a fucking pretentious name, and you don’t actually mind being called Joanie, you just hate that I did it in front of that terrible boyfriend of yours- what was his name? Reagan?”

“Riley.”

“That’s it! Riley! God, he made fun of Joanie with a name like Riley? What a loser.” 

“ Mark.” Joan’s voice is just the right side of amused, and Mark grins down at the grainy table, tracing his fingers over the whorls and knots in the wood. He shifts the boxy cell phone from his left shoulder to his right, rolling his shoulder around to release some of the tension in his neck. He slurps at the ice at the bottom of his cup, effectively drowning out all of Joan’s next words. 

“-right, though,” she says, garbled against his ear, and Mark nearly drops his latte all over his jeans. 

“Wait, hold up, sorry, go back a second, what-” 

“I don’t know, Mark, I just think… I see their point, okay?” Joan’s voice rises as she speaks, clearly agitated, and Mark nearly drops his phone. 

“You think they’re RIGHT?” He snaps, suddenly on the defensive. “You think I should, what, just give up on my dreams? Because of our shitty-ass parents?”

“Language-” 

“That’s bullshit, Joan-”

“Language-”

“STOP TELLING ME TO WATCH MY FUCKING LANGUAGE!” Mark yells, then jumps as he remembers where he is. The cafe itself is practically empty, with only a few college students and the baristas wiping down tables, but he still makes an effort to lower his voice. 

“Joan, you cannot honestly tell me you’re on our parents’ side.” 

She sighs, and the phone vibrates against his cheek. 

“Mark…” 

“Fine,” he snaps, and Mark’s face is burning with anger, but he fights to keep his voice level. The words come out more icy than he intended, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Fine, I’ll give up on my fucking dreams and just go to school for something boring because that’s what Mom and Dad want, is that what you want to hear?” 

“Mark, I’m not saying-” Joan starts, but Mark isn’t interested. 

“I don’t want to hear it, Joan ,” he says. “Did you miss the part where they threatened to disown me? Or do you just not care ?” 

In his mind's eye, he’s watching all his dreams - years spent at artsy colleges with woodsy scenery to wander through, portraits of friends with flower crowns and shots of railroads heading nowhere, a successful photography career - go up in flames, but he won’t allow himself to mourn. Not yet. 

“I’m sorry, Mark,” Joan begins, but Mark only sighs and hangs up the phone, not even bothering to say goodbye.

He should have known his parents would get in the way of his dreams. They seem to mess up everything else in his life; why would this be any different? 

[03 October 2014]

It turns out that building a bomb is both harder and easier than Mark expected. 

Building it, strangely enough, is the easy part. Oliver Ritz is good at what he does, good at controlling little reactions and making sure nothing goes too wrong. Oliver will notice things that not a single other person on their team would have even thought of; Mark will notice the taste of ozone coating the back of his throat, and he’ll allow himself a little, secret smile. 

The hard part, however, is Oliver. It’s watching Oliver work, tasting bitter chlorine and burnt wire in the back of his throat, and knowing that there’s not a single act more dangerous for Mark than revealing that he knows Oliver’s secret.

Because that’s what it is, at the end of the day - a secret. It’s a secret that can’t get out, not if Mark cares about his own safety - or Oliver’s. 

Mark finds himself biting his tongue at all hours, desperate to say something to Oliver, to let him know that Mark is like Oliver. He wants to tell Oliver that his ability tastes like ozone, wants to tell him that he can sometimes feel the reactions happening as Oliver instructs molecules to bind and bend to his will. He wants to reach out, but every time he thinks to do so, something holds him back. 

Be careful, Mark. 

It’s been years since he’s spoken to Joan, but the bite of her parting words to him still stings. She’d called him during finals season while he was in grad school, all excited about her new job offer in Boston, of all places. 

He’d been happy for her, at first - happy for her, that is, until he’d asked her what agency she was working for, and she’d grown quiet.

They’re called the Atypical Monitors, she’d said finally. The AM. They… help people, Mark. People like… 

People like me, Mark hadn’t said, even though he’d wanted to. 

They’d stayed on the phone for only a few more minutes after that, the silence growing cold over the line. Mark had only been able to bear it for so long.

I’ll call you later, he’d told her. Let me know how the move goes. 

She’d made a noise, then, like she was holding something back, and he’d held his breath, waiting, until she huffed out a breath. 

Mark, she’d said, and her voice was suddenly deadly serious. Mark, you need to know… these people, they… she’d stopped, then started again. Just… promise me you’ll be careful, alright? And don’t tell anyone about what you can do; it’s too dangerous. Just… I need you to be careful. 

She’d hung up on him. 

He hasn’t heard from Joan since - not about the move, or the new job, or life in Boston. She hadn’t called when he’d graduated, even though he’d sent her an invite. He’d even sent her a postcard, once, but it had come back marked RETURN TO SENDER, DELIVERY FAILURE in big letters. 

He’d stopped trying after that, but her last warning has never stopped ringing in his ears. He’s felt like someone has been watching him since he moved to Virginia, even though the “Atypical Monitors,” as Joan had called them, were all the way up in Massachusetts. Sometimes, when he lets himself think back to their conversation, just remembering the way Joan had said their name sends a shiver down his spine. 

So he never says anything to Oliver, even though he sometimes thinks that the pungent taste of ozone is the best thing he’s ever tasted. He could drown in it, if he wanted; let himself sink into the clean sharpness in the back of his throat and watch as the world snaps together molecule by molecule. 

The only thing he cannot do is talk to Oliver. It’s not safe. 

Be careful, Mark. 

I know, Joanie, he wants to yell back. I know. 

He’s not a kid anymore. He knows that the world isn’t made of sunshine and rainbows. Not for people like him. 

But fuck if it’s not damn hard to remember to be careful, standing here watching Oliver. He’s so beautiful when he concentrates, and Mark just wants to shake him. 

Sometimes, when Oliver thinks no one is watching, he lets his shoulders drop from their defined battlefield, mountains and ridges below his ears to keep everyone else at bay, and he looks… lonely. Sad. Mark never lets on that he sees it, but sometimes he’ll leave the lab and come back with some of the shitty coffee they keep in the pot in the lounge, prepared just how Oliver likes it, and Oliver will smile, eyes suspiciously red, as they turn quietly back to their work. Sometimes, if Mark is really lucky, their fingers will brush as he passes the paper cup across, and Mark will get to watch a pale flush rush across Oliver’s cheeks. 

Be careful, Mark. 

Easier said than done, Joan. Easier said than done. 

[November 2012]

It’s late, or maybe early, and Mark is pretty sure that if he looks at the chemical formula he’s been fiddling with for even one more second, he is going to cry. The clock has already gone three by the time he looks up, and he’s not sure what he’s doing wrong with this assignment, but it’s not working, it’s not working , and it had been due in to his graduate advisor by midnight, but he sure as hell isn’t going to make that deadline from three hours ago-

Okay, so maybe he’s panicking a bit. More than a bit. Maybe he’s panicking a lot, but it’s not for a bad reason - his whole graduate thesis hinges on this formula working, and if it doesn’t work he’s going to have to start again, and he honestly doesn’t think he could bear that. 

The walls of Mark’s apartment are starting to close in around him; his shoebox of an apartment is already too small to fit both him and his roommate, but suddenly it's tighter than it's ever been. It’s making him claustrophobic. Mark can’t breathe . 

With a strangled gasp he shoots to his feet, pulling on his shoes with fumbling fingers and grabbing the bag he’s pretty sure has his keys before nearly running out of his apartment. 

When Mark and Nick, the creative writing major a friend from Binghamton had connected Mark to, had decided to live together, they’d chosen an apartment equidistant from campus and a park Nick had told Mark was called Piedmont Park. Mark hadn’t cared at the time, but Nick was an avid runner and had wanted an easily accessible route to follow most mornings before class. Now, as he points his feet towards Piedmont, Mark finds himself suddenly grateful for Nick’s insistence. He walks, and walks, and breathes in the chill of fall and the silence of a city still sleeping at four in the morning, and keeps walking. 

You hate this, a little voice in the back of his head tries to tell him. You’ve always hated this. Why are you doing this to yourself? You’ve never liked math, you’re just fooling yourself. 

You’ll never be good enough to please Mom and Dad, another voice chimes in. This one sounds all too much like Joan, and Mark almost gasps at the venom in her voice. You should just give up. 

Start again, Byron, the voice of Dr. Cordwell, his lab professor, snaps at him. Mark had always hated that name, but he hates it even more from Cordwell’s mouth now, sharp as a knife and twice as poisonous. You’re not understanding!

He’s stopped walking now, chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon, but he still can’t fucking breathe. The cold air hurts his lungs.

Breathe, Mark, another voice whispers in the back of his mind. It’s Josh, and Mark can still remember this moment clear as crystal - Josh taking his hand, white suit-shirts gleaming under the prom lights, as they’d prepared themselves to walk through the doors to the gym. We got this. Just breathe, okay?

Breathe. Yeah, Mark can do that. 

He takes a deep breath in, letting the early morning air fill his lungs, and watches the condensation form in front of his lips as he exhales. In and out; he can breathe now, slow and shaky. 

Mark sags down onto a park bench and looks out across the river. The sun has just begun to rise, warm light spilling out over the horizon, and Mark wishes he’d thought to grab his phone before he’d flung himself out of his apartment so that he could take a picture of it. His gaze drops to his bag, as if expecting to see his phone sitting on top of the thrifted brown leather instead of on his desk where Mark knows he’d left it, and-

Oh. 

That’s not the bag with his house keys in it. 

Mark can’t even remember the last time he’d touched this bag or its contents, the Canon camera’s black metal gleaming in the dim light of the early morning. The last time Mark had used this had been… probably before the semester even started, when Nick had dragged him around Atlanta in an attempt to “familiarize him with the landscape” or something like that. He hadn’t even taken many pictures that day, just a few of Nick and one of the Campus Life Center while Nick had led him through Emory’s main campus. It’s been… months, already, at this point.

Mark remembers having loved photography, once. He stares out at the sunrise and thinks of a different Mark, the Mark of 2006, who had carried his shitty old disposable cameras everywhere he could and used his allowance money to pay for disposables and film. The Mark from back then had been full of a love for life, filled with hope that things would work out. He’d been naive. 

The Mark he is now kind of misses the Mark he was then, if he’s being honest. When had he given up on his dreams of capturing life’s beauty? When had he stopped reaching for his camera every time he was privileged enough to be awake for sunrises and sunsets? 

Mark breathes in the chilly February air, eyes fixed on the horizon, and without a conscious thought, the camera is in his hand. He points it at the fiery sunrise spreading its way over Piedmont Park and the Atlanta skyline and breathes out.

Click. 

He breathes in, changes his angle, breathes out.

Click. 

Again.

Click. 

If he doesn’t think about it, he can almost pretend that he’s just in Atlanta on a job, that he’s some famous photographer who’s being paid to photograph the beautiful sunrise in front of him. Or maybe he’s still a student, trying to finish his final project before a deadline, staying up too late, drinking too much coffee, and pretending to hate the way his professors talk about his composition. 

Anything but a biochemical engineer with too many problems to solve, anything but the guy whose thesis is falling through because of stupid human error. He’s so tired of being that guy. 

He’d never wanted to be that guy, is the thing. He’d chosen a state college half out of spite, because if Mark had to choose somewhere to do college that his parents were okay with, he was going to choose the most complicated possible place, and screw it to hell whether he failed or not. 

He’d expected to end up in sociology or something. 

He sure hadn’t expected being talked into the intro to chemistry during freshman year registration, and he certainly hadn’t expected being good at it. Mark wasn’t supposed to be good at science, wasn’t supposed to find himself enjoying figuring out the ways that the world clicked together. 

He’d meant to fall. He’d never even considered the notion of flying. 

In retrospect, Mark muses as he lets the familiar routine of position-breathe-click wash over him, maybe photography and chemistry weren’t as different as they appeared at first glance. Both are just ways of looking at the world, of zooming in on certain details and deconstructing universes. Both are based on snapshots of time, and patience, and honestly more than a little luck. 

Mark stares out at the city skyline above him and thinks of unsolved problems, scratch paper, broken pencils, camera shutters, and undeveloped film. He thinks about the space between atoms and the moments between breathing and shutters clicking- 

“Oh, ” he breathes, and suddenly things seem clearer. There are answers itching at his fingers like the buttons on his canon, and Mark thinks with sudden clarity that he’s been ignoring the obvious answers to his problems.

He packs his camera back into its bag and turns his feet towards home, suddenly reinvigorated. He can do this. Hope is not yet lost. 

The roll of film in the camera, however, goes undeveloped. 

[11 October 2014]

About two weeks after Mark and Oliver get assigned to the Boston Project, they get assigned a third partner. 

Her name is Jessica Wolfe; she's got a doctorate in nuclear physics, and she's absolutely brilliant. 

Oliver, for once in his life, actually seems to tolerate - even enjoy - the presence of another human. 

Mark hates her.

The thing is - and Mark won’t admit it, not even to himself, but he knows it’s true - Mark has become comfortable in the knowledge that even if Oliver hates every other human in the known universe, he likes Mark . It makes Mark feel special, to know that this utter genius of a man - this Sherlockian example of a nuclear scientist - has chosen him, Mark Bryant, over every single other person in the DOD. He’s not stupid enough to think that he’s special to Oliver in the way Oliver is special to him, in the way Mark stares too long and yearns too much, but he likes to know that he is at least something to Oliver.

So to know that he is not special - to watch Oliver dance around Dr. Wolfe instead of laughing with Mark - it makes Mark feel pretty shitty, actually. 

He’d always known he wasn’t special, always known he’d never be enough for the people he loved, but he hadn’t even considered the possibility of not being special enough for Oliver Ritz. 

After three days of the Oliver-and-Jessica show, Mark decides that the best course of action for him to take here would be to take the high ground and give Oliver the silent treatment. 

Joan always said that if he didn’t have anything nice to say, he shouldn’t say anything at all, and to be completely frank, Mark has nothing nice to say to Oliver about Dr. Wolfe. 

Of course, it only takes about an hour for Oliver to catch on to Mark’s new attitude towards him, and once he does, he makes it perfectly clear what he thinks of Mark’s newfound “maturity”. 

“Bryant,” Oliver says irritably, “is there a problem?”

Mark feels his annoyance flare up at Oliver, and he can’t quite bite back his irritable response. 

“I don’t know, Ritz, is there?”

Mark never calls Oliver by his last name. It’s a point of pride, for him - for as long as Oliver’s going to call Mark by a name he no longer associates with, he’s going to call Oliver by a name that’ll annoy Oliver to no end - it’s their thing . Using Oliver’s last name is a deliberate choice for Mark, and he can tell by the way Oliver flinches that the knife hits exactly where it’s meant to. 

Oliver’s mouth falls open. For once in his life, Oliver Ritz - the man Mark knows has a sassy retort for everything - is speechless. The taste of victory is bitter on Mark’s tongue, but he forces himself to keep going.

“Not like you would have noticed, anyway,” Mark says. He glares at Oliver challengingly. “Y’know, with all the attention you’ve been giving Dr. Wolfe-”

“Jessica? That’s your problem?? You’re so caught up in insignificant things, Bryant, why would you-” Oliver starts, then shakes his head. “You know what? No. Get back to work, Bryant, I don’t want to hear from you.” 

He turns to leave and Mark sees red. 

“Hey!” Mark shouts after him. “Get back here, Ritz, I wasn’t done with you-”

“Oh, I think you were,” Oliver spits venomously. He turns back to Mark, eyes blazing fire, and Mark can taste ozone at the back of his throat. Oliver’s fingers are twitching. “Until you can be trusted to work on the assignment, Bryant, you can leave. I don’t want to see you here.”

“You can’t do that,” Mark counters. He knows he should back down and apologize, knows that this argument is stupid and based on Mark’s own jealousy and deeply-rooted self-esteem issues, but he can’t stop. “You’re not McCarthy, you’re barely even my superior-”

“Watch me,” Oliver snarls. His hands are curled into fists now and Mark can feel the power radiating off of Oliver, anger seeping into the atoms around them as they mutate. The taste of ozone is stronger than it’s ever been, and just for a moment - for a moment - Mark is actually afraid of what Oliver could do to him. “Don’t test me, Bryant, do you even know-”

“Do I know what?” Mark hisses, all too cognizant of the fact that Jessica could reenter the room at any minute. She’s not atypical, or if she is, her ability is so dormant that he’s never been pinged by it, and the way this is going, this conversation is going to take a turn that she’d never be able to even comprehend. “Do I know that you could break me apart, that you could unmake me, that you could kill me without breaking a sweat? Yes, Ritz, I do. I feel it every time you use that stupid ability of yours in this lab, Oliver, don’t ask me- ”

The pin drops. 

“What did you just say?”

Mark stares at Oliver. Oliver stares at Mark. Mark thinks hysterically that if a pin was to drop across the lab right now, they’d probably hear it, though the silence rings in his ears like a bell. 

“What. Did. You. Say, Mark.” Oliver advances on him menacingly, and though Oliver is shorter than Mark normally, Mark’s never felt smaller in his life. 

“Oliver, I can explain-”

“Explain what, Bryant-”

Oliver looks a bit like a caged animal, ready to fight to survive, and all Mark wants to do is take him into his arms, wants to hold Oliver close and tell him that he’ll be-

“-lright, Ritz, you’re alright.” 

“Tell me what you know, Bryant,” Oliver snaps. He looks just about ready to vibrate out of his own skin. “Tell me!”

“Oliver-”

“Tell me. Now.”

“Oliver… I know, okay? I know what you can do. It’s okay, Oliver-”

“It’s not, Bryant-”

“I can- would you stop that?!”

Across the lab, Mark can feel the change as something within their prototype snaps. It’s whirring faster and faster, in time with the flashes in Oliver’s eyes as his fists open and close open and close open and close-

“Oliver!” Mark cries out. He’s on his knees - when did he fall? When did Oliver fall?

The taste of ozone burns Mark’s throat and he gags on it, sticky sweet sulfur and acid burning his sinuses as atoms collide, energy singing through the air as the bomb they’ve been working on for the past two and a half weeks inexplicably activates. 

“Oliver, you need to stop this!” Mark chokes out, tears burning in his eyes. Machines flash around them, alarms singing along with the thrum of Mark’s heart, and Mark can’t, it’s all too much-

He casts down in his mind, reaches for the ozone sitting heavily in his chest, and tugs. 

For a moment, everything flashes a bright white-

And then the alarms stop blaring. Mark half expects Jessica to come running in, asking what all the commotion was, but the building is quiet - not a single footstep in the hallways, only the sound of Mark’s own heartbeat in his ears. Across the room, sheltering behind a desk, Oliver Ritz looks incredibly small - smaller than Mark has ever seen him before. There is still anger in his eyes, flashing bright and tearing through Mark’s heart. 

“Oliver,” Mark says urgently. “Oliver, look at me, you’re okay-”

Oliver shrinks away from him, shrinking back like Mark is going to strike him if he gets too close, and Mark’s heart bleeds for him. 

“Mark, listen-”

“Oliver, I-”

“I can explain-”

“Oliver!”

Oliver looks at Mark, and Mark is shocked to see fear in his eyes. Oliver is afraid, really afraid, of whatever is going to come out of Mark’s mouth next. He chooses his words carefully. 

“Oliver… you… do you know what it means to be atypical?” 

As soon as the words leave Mark’s mouth, Oliver sags to the ground. 

“You’re like me,” he whispers. “You’re… How did I not-”

“Notice?” Mark finishes. “Don’t blame yourself, Sherlock. I’m basically powerless for the most part.”

“Bullshit,” Oliver says, barking out a small, semi-deranged laugh. His eyes look positively manic. “Don’t think I didn’t notice-”

“Notice what?” Mark challenges. “Did you notice me stopping the bomb from detonating? Notice me make sure you didn’t blow us all to smithereens? Did you notice me saving our goddamn asses? News flash, Oliver - that was your ability, you know, the one that nearly killed us .”

The adrenaline that’s still pumping through Mark’s bloodstream is fading now, leaving him with nothing but the bitter sting of tears in his eyes and ozone burning his throat.

“That was my…” Oliver breathes. “What do you mean-”

Mark can’t take it anymore. He pushes himself off the floor and staggers towards Oliver, extending a hand towards the other man.

“Hello, Dr. Ritz,” he says quietly. “Mark Bryant. Mimic.” 

Oliver stares at his hand for a moment, all fear replaced with absolute wonderment.  

“You’re… like me,” he says, eyes flitting back and forth between Mark’s face and his outstretched hand like if he looks away for just one moment Mark will disappear. “You’re…” 

“I-”

Before Mark can even begin to think to reply, Oliver seizes Mark’s hand, tugging harshly, and Mark falls on top of him. His knees end up colliding none-too-softly with the hard tile of the floors, but he can’t bring himself to care-

Because Oliver Ritz is kissing him.

[February 2008]

The first boy Mark Bryant ever kissed could make light dance. 

He’d met Eshan in his sophomore inorganic chemistry class. Eshan had sat down across from him on their first day and introduced himself, and when Mark shook his hands he smelled dandelions and freshly cut grass. 

He hadn’t known then what to make of the smells, only having just discovered that he was… different, but Eshan made him laugh when the lecture information sounded like Greek to Mark, pointed out the professor’s nervous tics, and imitated his squeaky voice until Mark laughed hard enough to make his sides hurt. 

The first time Mark kissed him was a revelation. 

Mark had kissed girls before, and he’d liked it, too - there was Katie Menekse in sophomore year of high school, who smelled like bubblegum and made Mark’s heart skip a beat when she met him behind the bleachers, and Jennifer Raymond, who’d taught Mark how to use his tongue in ways that would make just about anyone melt - but he’d never kissed a boy before Eshan. 

Eshan had taught Mark more than any girlfriend. They’d dated for close to a year, spending too much time dancing and going out drinking instead of studying for exams, pretending to do homework together in Eshan’s dorm room while his roommate was in, and spending too much time wrapped up in each other when he was out. Eshan was the first boy Mark kissed, the first boy he’d slept with, the first boy he’d dated. 

It had taken him months to get up the courage to ask about the dandelion smell, to understand why Mark felt a tugging in his sternum sometimes when they kissed, and Eshan had laughed and thrown shimmering shards of light across the walls of his dorm room. Mark had learned to control Eshan’s power then, had learned to draw it into his own body and let waves of colorful light fracture across the floors, and he’d never felt more like he was flying. 

Eshan’s family had never seen his ability as anything other than a gift, as something beautiful, and for the first time ever Mark had been able to create beauty instead of desolation. 

Sometimes he thinks that’s why he and Eshan had gotten along so well, in retrospect. Eshan’s ability was beautiful, just like he was; when he was around Mark, Mark felt beautiful as well. The scent of dandelions would fill his nose, and he would breathe in air and exhale beauty. 

They’d lasted until Mark found Eshan staring at one of his roommates with a look that had never once been turned on Mark, and Mark had understood. He’d kissed Eshan goodbye, trying to ignore the way that the tears on both of their cheeks combined, and hadn’t regretted a second. 

The last he’d heard, Eshan and his roommate-turned-boyfriend were still dating, going on three years, but Mark would always remember him as warm kisses, stubble, and shimmering colored lights flickering across both of their faces. 

[11 October 2014]

Oliver Ritz is kissing him. 

Oliver Ritz is kissing Mark Bryant.

Oliver tastes like warmth and spices, tastes like the chicken he’d been eating for lunch only a few hours ago. He’s warm and soft and real beneath Mark’s palms, clinging to Mark like he can’t quite believe Mark is actually there with him. Oliver is kissing him, and Mark lets himself fall into it, angles his face to better access Oliver’s mouth, and sucks hungrily on Oliver’s bottom lip like his life depends on it. For a moment, time is frozen - there’s nothing but Mark, and Oliver, and the dim whirring of machines doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. 

Finally, Oliver seems to remember that he does need to breathe, actually, and so they pull apart, panting harshly in the quiet of the lab. Mark’s nearly straddling Oliver, and he doesn’t want to ask if it’s the adrenaline from their collective near-death experience or if Oliver’s wanted this just as long as Mark has, choosing instead to revel in the combined heat of their bodies pressed together against the floor. 

Oliver looks up at Mark with wonder in his eyes and Mark can’t help but lean in again, can’t resist the urge to cover Oliver’s lips with his own and breathe him in like Mark’s dying of thirst and Oliver is an oasis in the middle of the desert. Mark’s eyes slide shut, and for a moment, there is nothing more in the world besides the slide of Oliver’s lips against his own. 

“Do you… Do you want-” Oliver gasps against Mark’s lips, and Mark moves his attention down to Oliver’s neck. He hums against the pale skin consideringly, and Oliver shudders.

“Mark, Mark, do you… we should… not here-” Oliver gasps, and Mark sighs, biting down just a bit at the junction of Oliver’s neck before pulling back. He stands, adjusting his slacks discreetly, and offers Oliver his hand again. This time, Oliver takes it, still dazed and bleary-eyed but with a look on his face unlike anything Mark’s ever seen before. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Mark says, and Oliver smiles.

“Let’s.”

[June 2011]

The day after Mark graduates from undergrad, he packs a bag of everything he thinks he’d want to take from his room in his parents’ house, and he leaves. 

He doesn’t tell anyone what he’s been planning, doesn’t tell his parents that he’d been saving up his money for a shitty apartment in Atlanta, doesn’t tell Joan he’d gotten a full ride to Emory’s graduate program. He doesn’t leave a forwarding address. 

He packs up, and he leaves, and he doesn’t look back. 

The plane ride from New York to Atlanta is somehow the longest and shortest ride of his life. He’d been able to get tickets cheap, and it was faster than a bus, so he’d gotten a taxi to the airport. A friend of a friend had picked him up in Atlanta, fed him, and then left him looking up at his new apartment building. 

All he’d had to his name was a couple thousand saved from working as a waiter in undergrad and two suitcases. He’d slept on the floor that night, and the night after that, and the night after that. 

Mark had cried, that first night in Atlanta, mourning the family he logically knew he would never be good enough for but had wanted to love regardless. He’d cried for his mother’s love, for his father’s disappointment. He’d cried for Joan.

Joan, who hadn’t talked to him since that fateful day where they’d discovered what he could do. Who hadn’t said a word to him after “be careful”. Who’d hung up the phone on Mark and stopped trying to call. 

He doesn’t want to resent Joan, but he can’t help it. He can’t help but blame her, for not being there for him, for not sticking up for him - with their parents, with Vanessa, in general. Joan had always told him it was just the two of them against the world, but when it had really come down to it… well. It hadn’t been, had it? 

So, he’d cried - cried for his family, for his sister, for himself - and then he’d picked himself up off the floor and looked around this new apartment that he was meant to call home for the next few years at least. It looked like a fresh start.

He’d promised himself then, standing in the middle of his empty kitchenette-slash-living room, that he would never again cry for them. He was forward-facing, from now on. They weren’t worth his tears. 

It was the last time Mark Bryant cried for a very long time. 

[12 October 2014]

When he wakes, Mark Bryant is not in his own bed. 

For a moment, Mark is incredibly disoriented. He’s not in any bed, which is strange, because he could have sworn he and Oliver-

Oliver. 

The thought shocks him awake, and he pushes himself off of the stone floor he doesn’t remember falling asleep on the night before. His eyes are open now, but he’s sure he’s never seen this room before, all dulled metal and shimmering glass. There’s a cot in the corner opposite him, four walls surrounding him, and not much else.

Where am I?

His body hurts. He’s never felt pain like this before, not even when he’d broken his ribs when he’d fallen down the stairs of his apartment while stoned in college. This feels like the worst hangover of his life, times ten - cottonmouth, body aches, the works. Everything hurts, and he’s confused, and he’s sure he did not fall asleep here. 

The last thing Mark remembers is falling asleep next to Oliver, sweaty and happier than he thinks he’s ever been. He remembers watching Oliver breathe, eyes fluttering in his sleep, feeling the adrenaline of the day fade from his body, and falling asleep anticipating the morning. He’d felt warm and safe, curled around Oliver Ritz, in ways he would never have even imagined feeling only a few months ago.

He’s certainly not in Oliver’s bedroom anymore, and he definitely doesn’t feel warm or safe in this… cell.

Because that’s what this is, really. Mark is in a cell, trapped in a weird glass cube in only Oliver’s borrowed pajamas, and he doesn’t know how he got there or where he even is. 

“It’s good to see you awake, Byron,” a new voice muses from behind him, and Mark whips around. The woman before him is lithe and dangerous-looking, high heels sharper than a knife, and Mark has no idea who she is, but he knows that he should be very afraid of her. 

“Who-” 

“Don’t worry, Byron,” the woman says cooly. “You can call me Director Wadsworth. I think we’ll be… very well acquainted, by the time you’re done here.” 

Director Wadsworth’s eyes are colder than her tone, and Mark shivers. “Please-”

“You couldn’t hide from us forever, you know, Byron,” Wadsworth says, and an icy smile spreads across her face. “We would have found you eventually. Frankly, I’m surprised it took us this long. That is a severe error on our part, Byron, and one that will not be repeated.”

Mark can only watch in horror as Wadsworth goes to pull away from the cell, before turning back to him. 

“Welcome to The AM, Mr. Bryant,” she says. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

She smiles and walks off, leaving Mark to gape after her. He’s so focused on her that he barely notices the other cell, but then-

Oliver. 

The other man is curled in on himself in the corner of a parallel cell, trying desperately to retain heat. Even from where he is standing, so close and yet so far, Mark can make out the tremors that wrack Oliver’s large body.

He doesn’t look large, now. He looks small. Small and afraid. Mark can’t take it.

“Oliver!” he yells, pounding on the glass that separates him from the other scientist. “Oliver!” 

The glass must be sound-proof. Oliver doesn’t even flinch. 

“OLIVER! ” Mark screams, throwing his fist up against the glass of the cell, and this time Oliver seems to notice. He raises his head, and Mark feels like sobbing. Oliver’s eyes are glassy and dead, as if he’s already resigned himself to their fate; Mark has no doubt in his mind that Director Wads-whatever-her-name-was has been taunting him as well.

He holds Oliver’s gaze, trying to convey love and guilt and sorrow and everything he’s feeling without words, and Oliver’s face crumples. Mark wants nothing more than to smash through the glass walls separating them, to run to Oliver and hold him and never let him go, and he slams his fist against the glass again in a sudden burst of rage. He’s never felt so hopeless. 

Across from him, Oliver’s mouth is moving. Mark tries to make out the words, but they don’t seem to be English.

It almost seems like… Oliver is praying. 

(Once, during those strange times where they were just sitting around waiting for reactions to happen, during one of those times where Mark got to see under Oliver’s prickly mask and really get a glimpse of the man underneath, Mark had asked Oliver about Judaism. Mark himself had been raised without religion; he hadn’t known nearly anything about the traditions and customs of orthodox Jews, but Oliver had only smiled. He’d seemed happy to answer Mark’s many questions about eating habits and rules and prayer and everything in between.

When he’d asked Oliver if he still prayed, though, the other man had gone quiet. 

“Not… exactly,” he’d said hesitantly. “I don’t quite know if I believe anyone is listening, but… sometimes it’s nice just to speak to the universe, you know?”

Mark hadn’t. He hadn’t really understood, then, and Oliver had only smiled and changed the topic slightly.

“When I was a kid,” Oliver had said, “my parents used to tell us that if we were ever in danger, we should say the shema. It’s… a prayer, I guess, that’s meant to remind Jews about the power of god. It’s the last thing a Jew says before they die.”)

Vaguely, in the back of his head, Mark wonders if Oliver is saying that prayer, the one a Jew says before they die. He almost hopes he is. 

Mark hadn’t understood the connection, then. He thinks he does now. 

He holds Oliver’s gaze through panes of glass until he can’t anymore, until the weight of standing and staring at this other man - this man he thinks he could have fallen in love with, if they’d been given the chance - drags him down to the floor. Mark is completely and utterly helpless. There is nothing left for him to do. 

He cannot look at Oliver anymore. Instead, he buries his face in his knees, and for the first time since he’d run away from home years ago, he cries. Everything, he thinks, is hopeless. 

Mark Bryant is twenty-six years old, and his world has given up on him.