Work Text:
He first notices it on their third date.
"No lock?" He pulls away from Whizzer's clawing embrace, eyeing the thin, flimsy door currently only being held shut by a taut but fraying rope.
"A batshit neighbor ran off with all the doorknobs on my floor after he got evicted," Whizzer explains hurriedly, obviously wishing to get the show back on the road as he pointedly grinds their hips together, "Landlord replaced 'em last month, but they were cheaper if they didn't have locks."
"And you're okay with that?" Marvin makes an incredulous noise at Whizzer's shrug, "Whizzer, do you realize how dangerous that is? Hell, it's probably even illegal."
Whizzer remains dismissive of Marvin's concern, pointing out, "He knocked twenty bucks off the rent though."
"Whizzer, I can't believe yo—" But then Whizzer slips a hand down Marvin's unbuckled pants and causes a choked moan to shudder through his body, and Marvin sort of forgets everything else that isn't Whizzer, Whizzer, Whizzer...
:: - ::
The first time Marvin stays overnight at Whizzer's place, he wakes up in Siberia.
"The heater is fucked," Whizzer informs him, already up in bed and nursing a bottle of whiskey, "Drink some of this. It'll warm you up." Marvin reaches over for the bottle and downs some of it, ignoring the well-intentioned voice in his head screaming that it isn't healthy to be drinking so early.
"I'm surprised you haven't frozen to death yet." Whizzer rolls his eyes at Marvin's bitchy tone, but instead of engaging in an argument about it (which Marvin is certain he'd win, mind you), he seemingly decides to schmooze his way out of this one.
"Now I don't have to worry about that anymore," Whizzer purrs, running a hand down Marvin's chest and biting his lip in a way that he knows makes Marvin's brain short-circuit, "I'll have a man to keep me warm."
"Yeah, you will," Marvin huffs, "It'll be the burglar who breaks into your apartment because you have no fucking lock on your door, and you'll wake up to him murdering you."
Whizzer drops the seductive act, but he still tries to deflect, "I know I said I was open to roleplay, but that'd be a little much, don't you think?"
Marvin just looks at him, perplexed, "You really don't give a shit, do you?"
"Of course I give a shit," Whizzer argues, rolling his eyes, "But it's not like I can change it, you know. Not everyone has a cushy job on Wall Street, Marvin. This is the only place I could afford while also maintaining my own business."
"Whizzer, it doesn't—"
Whizzer kisses him, and even though he realizes that it's just a ploy (and both of them have morning breath), Marvin can't bring himself to pull away. Morning breath and all, Whizzer is nonetheless a fantastic kisser, who knows just when and how to bite his lip and flick his tongue to render Marvin a gasping mess in no time. Whizzer does this now when Marvin doesn't start reciprocating, tugging at his bottom lip and cutting his eyes down at him. In silent plea, Whizzer coils his hands around Marvin's biceps, squeezing pointedly and reminding both of them of last night when Marvin had slammed him so hard against the wall during sex that it almost left a dent in the plaster. When all that Marvin can do is stare at him in wonder, Whizzer lines his jaw with wet kisses, stopping right at his ear and muttering a shuddered, "Come on."
Somehow breaking himself from the spell, Marvin finally guides Whizzer's mouth back to his and presses them together, one hand angling Whizzer's jaw while the other knots in the pretty boy's hair. He feels Whizzer stiffen as soon as he buries a hand in the light brown strands, the grip of his biceps faltering for a moment. Smirking a little and trying not to look smug, Marvin tugs at his hair, swallowing down Whizzer's breathy, choked moans. Though Whizzer playfully slaps him on the shoulder in mock-scolding, it doesn't stop the man from shuddering underneath him and clutching onto Marvin's biceps for dear life.
And it's all so wonderful, so—swell. Marvin never knew it could be like this, that he could do so much more than just watch and pine after handsome men. That he could actually take and take.
(All of a sudden, Marvin thinks about his parents, who still think Whizzer is the name of his pretty girlfriend because he had been too scared to correct them. He thinks about David Hessler, who had shoved him into the mud and called him a fag in the fifth grade—how the boy had said it, too; like being like that would be a fate worse than death. He thinks about Trina, who he isn't entirely convinced he ever loved but who he built his life around anyway because what he truly wanted was never even conceivable to him. And just like that, a sour, tight knot bundles in his stomach, reminding him that everything he's ever wanted is wrong and unnatural).
But then he thinks about Whizzer, who obnoxiously sings along to every song on the radio and who made fun of Marvin for asking to kiss him goodnight after their first date. He thinks about the curve of Whizzer's smile and the purr in his voice and the way Jason had looked at him with stars in his eyes when Whizzer told him that he loved baseball, too.
And maybe it's time for Marvin to be selfish, too. For once.
"Take me out for breakfast." Whizzer says once they finally pull apart, the harsh demand softened by the purred, demure inflection in his voice.
And Marvin just nods because he's helpless to deny him—of anything.
:: - ::
He never knew love could be so easy.
They go see movies together and neck like teenagers in the back row; Whizzer comes over to Marvin's to have dinner so often, he doesn't even have to ask anymore; they take Jason to baseball games every other weekend; they play racquetball on Wednesdays; Whizzer endlessly teases Marvin about the way he dresses while Marvin loudly mocks Whizzer's cooking; and Whizzer always lets Marvin kiss him goodnight—sweet and slow, like they have all the time in the world.
And hell, maybe they do.
It comes so easy, falling in love with Whizzer. Marvin does it without even meaning to.
"Please don't watch me throw up," Whizzer says pitifully, face ashen and queasy-looking, "If you do, I think I might have to break up with you. Purely for posterity reasons."
Marvin rolls his eyes as he continues to tuck Whizzer securely in bed, bunching the blankets around the man's trembling form even as he meekly protests. He fretfully checks his fever again, though he doesn't really know how to tell if it's bad enough to take him to the hospital.
"Just go," Whizzer says hoarsely, "It's just the flu. One of those godforsaken three-year-old had it when I took their picture. I must have picked it up then."
Marvin calms down his raging anxiety and gives him a crooked smile, "Who knew being a photographer could be so fatal?"
Whizzer rolls his eyes, picking at the meal that Marvin fixed him rather than eating it, "Stop hovering already, alright? I'm fine. God, it's not like I'm on my deathbed. Why are you even still here?"
"Why do you think, Dingus?" Marvin says exasperatedly, anxiously fixing Whizzer's pillow, "I love you." And it doesn't really register that he'd said it until a beat too late, but even then, Marvin wouldn't take it back even if he could.
Because it's so obvious, isn't it? Jason teases him about it endlessly, Trina bitches and whines each time Whizzer is brought up with fear in her eyes, Mendel even tried to give him advice that one time in the hallway when Whizzer had joined them for dinner. Everyone knows that Marvin is so fucking gone over Whizzer; it's essentially old news by now.
But maybe it wasn't so obvious to some people.
Whizzer makes a noise in the back of his throat and looks at him, cheeks flushed and mouth parted. His brown eyes, though dim and glazed from sleep deprivation, are suddenly bursting with light now. His breath is stuttered, but he still opens his mouth wider as if to say—
And then he throws up.
Which. Yeah. Okay. Of course.
"I love you, too." Whizzer blurts out as soon as he's able, though he keeps staring at his ruined comforter in acute horror.
Marvin laughs but then the stench of puke hits him, and he ends up further ruining the comforter with his own vomit.
It's all a touching scene, really.
:: - ::
"I don't do relationships, you know." Whizzer tells him, curled up at Marvin's side on the couch. The television provides a nice, quiet background hum to their evening, and they have to keep their voices down as well due to the sleeping nine-year-old in the next room.
Marvin arches an eyebrow, "Six months in, and you're telling me this now?"
"Five months," Whizzer corrects, which wrong but anyway, "And I'm just saying. I don't usually—You're not the type of guy I usually go for."
"Devastatingly handsome?"
"Cut it out. I'm being serious."
"What do you mean then?" Marvin disconnects their bodies enough so he's able to sit up and turn to Whizzer, "Like a guy who has a nice job and owns a house and has a kid?"
"No, I've screwed plenty of those before—I was into closet cases for a while; it was a weird phase," Whizzer admits, and Marvin tries not to feel the sudden stab of irrational jealousy, "No, I mean like—a good guy." And he says it like a dirty word, hurried and sputtered with flushed cheeks
"You want a family," Whizzer says prickly, seeming distraught at the notion with a tremor in his taut voice, "You want a housewife. You want someone to—to clip the coupons and make the dinner and clean up after you and pick up Jason from school and help you live this quiet, Stepford Wives lifestyle, and I'm not any of that. More importantly, I don't want to be any of that." As if Marvin's stare is too much, Whizzer has to look away, pinning his gaze to the television screen.
When he talks again, his voice is measured, tightly controlled, "I mean, come on, Marvin. Shouldn't we at least talk about—you know, long-term goals. As in, whether mine and yours actually match up."
Marvin turns off the television. Whizzer still keeps his gaze locked on the now darkened screen.
"Do you want to break up with me?" He's surprised that he even gets it out, his voice strangled.
"No." Whizzer's answer is immediate and exasperated, "It's just...You and I want different—"
"Don't tell me what I want," Marvin declares firmly, "You don't know what I want."
Whizzer scoffs, ever the arguer, "I don't, huh?"
"Clearly," Marvin prods Whizzer with a finger, "I want you."
His answer quiets whatever snappy retort Whizzer had opened his mouth to spew.
"Whizzer, you're so..." Marvin scrambles for words, but it's like his ever flowing vocabulary is reduced to elementary words, "Swell." He ignores Whizzer's bemused snort of mockery.
"I mean it. I crave your wrist," He takes one of Whizzer's hands and flips it over, pressing a soft kiss to the tender part of aforementioned body part, "I praise your thigh..." His other hand slips under the blanket, kneading at the skin of his inner thigh and loving how Whizzer's breath stutters.
"Marvin," Whizzer says tightly, "You're not getting out of this conversation."
"People do crazy things for love," And Marvin himself isn't really sure where he's going with this, but the spontaneity of the gesture is giving him the kind of confidence that makes him think that maybe he does know, "They, like—uh, kill each other sometimes. For the sake of love. Like, uh—a biblical brother. Did to his biblical brother. In, uh...biblical times."
Okay, so maybe he didn't know where he was going with that.
And because Whizzer never gives him a break—not even for a second, he laughs, "Biblical times?"
"Biblical times," He confirms, cringing more than a little but determined to commit to the ludicrousness of it all, "Oh, those biblical times!"
"You're a maniac." Whizzer declares firmly, though he doesn't look too bothered by it if that were true. He's biting his lip and staring at him through anxious eyes and ducking his head shyly. And when Whizzer does this, his bangs fall forward and stick to his forehead.
"Don't touch your hair," Marvin snaps as Whizzer tries to brush them back, slapping his hand away, "You're perfect."
Whizzer rolls his eyes, a pleasing flush appearing on his skin. Whizzer doesn't attempt to interject this time, as if he too is wondering just what Marvin's point is if not to distract him from the matter at hand.
"Look, there's not a...a giant man," And at this point, Marvin has stopped registering the crash shit pouring out of his mouth right now, "Or like, a zebra or horse or some other abstract comparison—No one could ever love you the same as I do."
Whizzer seems touched, but still he asks, "Are you having a stroke or something?"
"Move in with me." The words tumble out of his mouth and echo throughout the quiet house.
Whizzer's eyes get as wide as saucers, "Yeah, you're definitely having a stoke. Shit, I need to call nine—" He tries to stand up, but Marvin still has a hand on his wrist. He anchors Whizzer beside him, forcing him to hear his case.
"You're always here anyway, and then you can put more money into your business, and your place is a crime scene waiting to happen, and Jason adores you, and I love you, and—Whizzer?" Whizzer hesitates before meeting his gaze, and only then does Marvin continue, affirming, "I love you."
"It's all just a ploy," Whizzer argues curtly with a slight tremor in his voice, though Marvin knows that tone as him trying to pick a fight rather than him actually believing what he says, "You want a housewife."
"Move in with me." Marvin doesn't let Whizzer twist this, tugging Whizzer back down to sit on the couch, "Let me prove to you that I don't want all that other bullshit."
Whizzer stares at him and doesn't say anything for a long time.
"Okay," He eventually gives in, his voice barely above a whisper, "Prove me wrong."