Thomas rose from the bed. "Tomorrow you can go back to being invincible. But for tonight, why don't you let the guy who loves you enough to kiss you with stale liquor and cigarettes on your breath take care of you? Get you into the tub and scrub every part of you that needs scrubbing. "
The teasing light died out of his tone, replaced by something else as Thomas stopped in front of him. "Maybe after that, you can try sleeping while I hold onto you and thank God that you kept on loving me until I figured out what a gift you are?" As Marcus' expression changed, Thomas moved forward another step, put a hand to his face. "Please, Master. Give me the gift of taking care of you. "
"I already did. "
"C'mon, then. I've got a bath run. It'll do you good. " Marcus gave him a searching look but complied, moving into the bathing area.
Thomas tried not to hover, but was nevertheless glad he did. When Marcus lifted his leg to get into the tub, he lost his balance.
"Whoa. . . got you. Here. " Thomas eased him down into the warm water. "Don't think Jack's completely out of your system yet. "
"Good thing he isn't. Else, probably wouldn't have let you. . . " Marcus' face was turned away, his jaw pressed to the cool porcelain. When Thomas laid a hand on his hair, tangled there, he didn't move, but he felt the focus of Marcus' awareness as if he'd fixed that potent gaze on him.
"I'm glad you did. It was about time you let me all the way in. Course, maybe it was the first time I'd earned the right to do it. " Marcus turned and looked at him then, a hundred thoughts passing between them, none of them needing saying.
"I don't know why I care," Marcus said abruptly. "He didn't ask for me. Why should it matter to me what his expectations were?"
"I think he was just the straw," Thomas suggested gently. "Do you have a good memory of him? Even one?"
Marcus looked down into the water. "He took me to the barber once, when I was six. We had ice cream afterward, sat in a park. He put his arm along the back of the bench and talked to me about going to school. How to get along with other kids, not to let them push me around, but not to jump into a fight, either. "
"That's your favorite memory of him. That's how you were able to call it up so easily. "
Marcus lifted a shoulder.
"Hold onto that one. That's the only one that matters anymore. Why don't you get your hair wet? I'll wash it. "
Marcus complied, sliding down and beneath the water's surface, and then emerging, slicking the ebony silk of his hair to his skull. As he settled back, scraping water from his face with his hands, he turned a considering eye to Thomas. It had some of its usual arrogance to it, cheering Thomas considerably. "Remember, shampoo followed by conditioner. Use the ones in the black bottles. " Thomas eyed the array of hair products on the corner of the tub and snorted. "God, I forget sometimes how gay you are. "
When he reached across to grab the shampoo, Marcus seized his waistband and hauled him into the tub. Even wrestling him, Thomas managed to be overpowered and held under for at least five seconds, water sloshing over the sides.
He surfaced, spluttering and laughing, and splashed Marcus in the face. "You asshole. You know this flannel shirt is a Tractor Wholesale original? It was a whole twelve ninety-five off the rack. You've simply ruined it. " And found himself dunked again. When he came up this time, he was hauled forward to meet Marcus' mouth in a wet, rough kiss, Marcus' hands holding his head.
Hair treatments could apparently wait.
Chapter Nineteen
Despite the relaxation a bath provided, Thomas could tell Marcus was still dealing with a lot of emotional debris. After their bath, he wrapped a towel around his hips and went back onto the balcony, seeming to need the open air, deep breaths of the freedom he apparently found high above the world below.
There was another chair, but instead of using it Thomas slid down the side of the balcony wall, lacing his hands over his knees. He stayed in Marcus' peripheral vision, his bare sole close enough to overlap the smallest toe of Marcus' nearer foot. An expanse of leg was revealed by the split of the towel, a provocative pose that was entirely unconscious, totally Marcus.
Thomas noticed when Marcus smoked, as he was doing now, he displayed a different set of gestures and mannerisms. As Thomas studied him, he realized when Marcus smoked, he saw the street kid, the boy.
"You've got questions in your eyes, pet. What's on your mind?" That was the all-seeing, all-knowing Master he knew. But pieces of the puzzle were still missing, holes Owen wouldn't or couldn't fill in. He wouldn't push, but if Marcus was in the mood, Thomas wanted all of it.
"Tell me more, about your life before. " Let me all the way in.
Marcus glanced at him. "I made it out, Thomas. I make a lot of money. I have friends, culture. " An unpleasant, almost cruel smile touched his lips. "I get everything I want. "
"Even me?"
"Especially you. "
"Arrogant jerk. " But Thomas leaned forward, brushed his knuckles over Marcus' ankle, stroked the calf. "Tell me," he repeated.
Marcus took a drag so deep on the cigarette Thomas expected to see the paper burn down to his fingers. Abruptly, he leaned down, snagged the front of Thomas' clean Tshirt. He pulled Thomas to him and kissed him with that hard, forceful and demanding Marcus taste. "That's not who I am anymore. You understand that?" Thomas nodded, but he couldn't help the desire he had to touch and heal all those scars inside that he could finally see. Why had he been fooled like all the rest, when it had been there, plain before him? "Tell me," he insisted, once again.
Marcus stared at him, straightened. Took another drag and spoke flatly. "I ran away at fourteen, turned fifteen on the streets here. Dad. . . " the word came out thick. "I knew what I was then, and Dad couldn't accept it. Wouldn't. Tried a lot of the usual things. Beating, tossed me in the cellar for a few days at a time, no food. Prayer. . . God, endless prayer. I still get nauseous if I get near a church. Whenever I have a hangover, I try to make a point of puking on the steps of one. I figure it's the tithe I owe. Sounds bitter as hell, doesn't it? My mother. . . "