Work Text:
How many times can you have ‘thank god we’re alive’ sex with someone before it becomes regular sex?
Scrolling aimlessly past news article after news article of the Fun Island disaster, Mac wonders if he should ask reddit. No one else has been able to give him a comprehensive answer and, since he’s definitively not asking Jonas, he’s kinda out of options. There might be some scientific study in how many brain cells you lose per close encounter with a deep sea monster because he knows for a fact that he wasn’t stupid enough to do this, a decade ago.
In fact, there is empirical proof that he used to be smarter than this.
Back so many years ago that it almost feels like a fever dream, it was Lori who ended up marrying Jonas. No one really thought that’d last — least of all the married couple themselves, he’s pretty sure — and as expected, they separated within a year. That’d certainly been a drinking session straight from somebodies surreal nightmare.
Divorce papers freshly signed and waiting to be sent off, set out of the way on top of Jonas’ backpack near the front door. Neither of them wanted to chance leaving it on the table; it’d be too easy to spill something on it and then they’d have to go through the hassle of filling it all out again. Given that the table was full of beer, tequila — the water jug Mac’d set down with an unimpressed gaze — it’d been a smart move.
He’d ended up with Lori on one side, Jonas on the other, the both of them clinking their bottles together over his lap. He remembers being both surprised and not that their relationship breakdown had been so amicable. Back then they’d both had egos large enough to sink the Titanic so one wrong word here or there and it would’ve resulted in a huge blow out. But between their previous friendship, their personalities and whatever it was that made them officially call it quits, they’d managed to muddle through it okay.
Same can’t be said for the incident that lead to Jonas fucking off for five bloody years, but that’s an entirely different mess.
Such a friendly end to a marriage — drinking and laughing and talking shit — would’ve been more impressive if Mac hadn’t been forced to third wheel the entire damn thing. …Forced might be a bit of a strong descriptor. One text from Jonas and he’d been tugging his jacket on, grabbing a six pack on his way, ready to spend a couple of excruciating hours playing buffer between his two friends.
There hadn’t been any awkwardness to find, no resentment to carefully redirect. They hadn’t needed him there, they’d just wanted him to come over for a session. So they’d drank and drank and laughed and passed out in a pile on the surprisingly comfortable couch he and Jonas’d scavenged from a curb.
Back then, Mac hadn’t been so dead set on not getting involved with Jonas. It’d always, always been a bad idea, but… When you’re young, all sorts of bad ideas seem all too tempting. Despite how sensible Mac’d liked to think himself, all those years ago it’d just been a matter of timing. Perpetually bad timing. Mac vividly remembers the morning after that divorce party, how he’d reminded himself that it was really not the time to kiss Jonas. Man’s divorce papers weren’t even signed.
Hadn’t brushed his teeth yet, either, the hungover bastard.
Mac, blessed with enough sense to alternate booze for water, had been best off. He’d made them all breakfast. Lori sprawled over the kitchen counter, hating life. Jonas pressed up against Mac’s back, clinging to him while he’d stood at the stove. Stubble scratching at Mac’s bare shoulder, the man groaning about how nauseous the scent of bacon was making him. Entirely unwilling to peel himself away cause he’s always been the worst sort of bastard when he’s under the weather.
Clingy.
Needy.
The sort of guy you have to bundle up into bed and hold close. Breathing together. Staring at the ceiling while Jonas whistle-snores through his crooked nose and thinking what it’d be like to have this all the time.
But then he’s back to being Jonas.
Great friend, great diver, great man to have on hand when the chips are down. But Jonas, Mac’s always known, is not relationship material. Realistically he’s three night stand material and by the third night, you’re already plotting out where your socks have ended up so you can make a quick escape in the early hours.
Despite that, Mac thinks he might’ve gone for it, eventually, but he never got the chance. Bad timing held up long enough that Mac got some real sense in his head and decided, rather firmly, that he and Jonas were friends — and only friends, nebulous as that distinction had felt over the years.
When all that bullshit with the sub went down… A sick Jonas likes to be coddled. To be held and pampered, no matter how he grumbles and pretends it’s the worst thing in the world to be cared for. He likes Mac’s body heat and his family soup recipe and winning arguments about what to watch on telly.
Sick and injured are different, even when the injury is deeper than the physical. Jonas when he’s truly hurt’d make a cornered animal jealous.
Watching Jonas spiral as Heller and the rest eroded his credibility and tanked his career had been hard.
Being cut off hurt worse and that’s when they’d been just friends. ‘Just’ like they hadn’t lived together on and off over the years — was it something to be thankful about, that they hadn’t gravitated together again yet, after the divorce? ‘Just’ like Mac’s mum didn’t use to ask and how’s Jonas? at the start of every call, voice smug and knowing as though she was just waiting for Mac to wake up to himself.
‘Just’ like Mac never woke up after an accidental lounge nap with Jonas’s fingers in his hair, dinner scent curling through the air, that soft fucking smile on the other man’s lips.
‘Just’ like Lori didn’t wink at Mac over Jonas’s shoulder when they got married.
Whatever they were back then — and realistically they weren’t ever gonna be more, because Mac’s got more than two braincells in his head and he knows a bad idea when it kisses him while three sheets to the fucking wind — it all came to an abrupt stop. The sub explosion, the discharge, the way Jonas dropped off the fucking map without a word.
A postcard dropping into his mailbox eleven months later doesn’t really mean much, in the grand scheme of things.
WISH YOU WERE HERE , the front’d read in bold, same thing curling underneath in Thai. On the back — nothing. A return address tucked in the corner. If he hadn’t recognised the handwriting, he would’ve thrown it in a post box with return to sender scrawled across the wide, blank space of it.
Just showing up is making an entrance Jonas said years later; about a decade ago, now. What a dramatic prick.
Mac spent the entire flight over girding himself for their reunion and, in the end, they’d fallen back into step without a hitch. Jonas snarked and joked and pretended like nothing could touch him; Mac threw it right back at him with a smile and, without hesitation, aimed for the soft spots Jonas likes to forget he had. Felt like they’d never spent so many years apart; half a conversation, some exaggerated facial expressions and a knock of the shoulders and everything else just… faded.
Honestly, it’s exactly the sort of thing Mac’d expect from an old friend. It happens every time he heads home, too; years melting away, friendships picked back up, no sweat. Fine for friendship, less fine for something more intimate. For half a decade filled with regret and what ifs and a well worn postcard shoved somewhere in Mac’s luggage to be thumbed over when he’s been drinking.
It’s lucky, isn’t it, that a friend is all Jonas ever was.
Older, wiser, firm in the knowledge that Jonas was a bad idea — he still couldn’t help himself from matchmaking, just a little. Whatever else he is, Jonas is handsome and charismatic in an odd, gruff way. Unlike some people, he won’t run off with a pilates instructor, at the very least. Suyin’d been stewing in the mess of her divorce for too long and, with a little nudge here and there, Jonas could be the perfect cure for that.
More than just that, as it turned out.
But… there was a moment there — maybe a few more, who’s counting — when that first fucking meg was causing havoc. A moment where Mac must’ve been sleep deprived and hopped up on so much adrenaline that any idea would’ve seemed brilliant. For a second, he’d looked at Jonas and thought, okay. Thought, now’s the time. Thought, without a single thought in his damn head, finally.
Not to be, of course — which was for the better. That spark between Jonas and Suyin was bright enough it could’ve brought another fucking meg down on them. Between them they managed to find something that was better than a quick tumble to celebrate being alive and victorious. Something stable the way Jonas always seemed like he should’ve been able to provide but had never quite been able to follow through with. Watching the two of them grow together over the years had felt half like a miracle, really.
In the aftermath, when everything settled and the adrenaline had made way for shock had made way for regular brain function, Mac had had a good laugh about it all.
As if, he’d chuckled, shaking his head at himself. Some people, as Mac well knows, are better as nothing more than friends. Some people just click. Suyin and Jonas? Once they found their groove, they clicked.
Those are your basic facts of life, really. The sort of load bearing pillar which has seen Mac through the last… god, he doesn’t even want to think about how long he’s known Jonas for. Long enough that he can’t ever forget that they’re friends first and foremost and nothing else’ll ever happen. There’s no hardship in that — Mac hasn’t exactly been pining away, celibate and miserable all these years. In closed ecosystems like Mana One, otherwise useful phrases like ‘don’t fuck your colleages’ don’t quite mean anything.
Despite this hard won and deeply held knowledge, Mac’s done something really fucking stupid.
If anyone asks — and, knowing how fucking nosy Jiuming is, Mac will be asked — he’s just gonna blame it on the alcohol. The adrenaline. That hypothesis he was thinking about before: neuronal loss is positively correlated with deep sea monster proximity. Just plot neuronal loss in numbers (x-axis) against distance from deep sea monster in metres (y-axis) and that’d explain everything, really.
Lounging on that beach, shuddering from the come down of yet another near death experience, Mac should’ve stayed put. Drinking too much after a day in the sun and the surf is not a good enough reason to have broken a decades long streak of not fucking Jonas. Not even when prehistoric creatures came far too close to making mince meat out of them all.
The first emergency responders had finally arrived, meaning they didn’t have to try and wrangle any of the tourists. After a quick chat to let them know that the problem had been dealt with, there was nothing to do but bask in the sun and drink and pretend that this hasn’t fucked them all up in indescribable ways. Again.
After a little while Meiying — young, full of energy, bone marrow long since replaced by curiosity — had left all the ‘old people’ to their overwhelming need for some downtime. Rigas, despite her offended defence upon being called old, hadn’t followed after Meiying. Instead, with an almighty sigh, she’d flopped back against the sand and said,
Fuck, am I old?
If the thirty year old asks that again, I’m walking back into the fucking ocean, Dj had replied without missing a beat
Thirty five, thank you, she’d corrected, to much mockery.
Thirty five, Jonas had scoffed, we’re in awe of your venerable presence.
That’d been all well and good. Less well and good was the way all the aches started to settle into his body. Even worse was getting asked to repeat what happened again and again; listening to Jiuming start damage control; remembering that there was a fuck off huge hole in the thermocline for about an hour and there could be more of those bastards swimming about without a care.
Hell, remembering that’s somehow managing to make Mac’s morning worse, and he’s already having a dozy. If more megs were wandering the oceans they would’ve turned up by now; it’s a fucking smorgasbord up here for them. Mac’s backup phone’d be ringing off the hook. So that’s one good thing at the very least. Another is, last he’d heard, Jiuming hadn’t been having any trouble rightfully shifting the blame onto Driscoll’s shoulders. Oh! Third silver lining:
He’s not Jiuming, who’s probably gotten fuck all sleep over the last two days, doing damage control for Zhang Oceanic.
At least it’s easier for him now that they’re all back on the mainland rather than puttering around Fun Island, waiting for room on the evac vessels. They probably could’ve squeezed their way onto one of the early vessels but it hadn’t seemed like worth the effort. Fun Island had a high population and the rescue boats had focused more on speed than capacity. Better to wait for whichever Zhang Oceanic craft was closest, for multiple reasons.
Besides, unlike the hoards of traumatised civilians the Mana One crew weren’t going to pieces in the wake of three megs and a fucking kraken. Rum might’ve helped with that, to be honest. Besides, Meiying’d been having fun running about and there’d been a whole luxury resort more or less deserted around them.
Not taking them up on their hospitality would’ve been a damn shame.
That — plus intimate knowledge of just how much sleeping on sand sucks — had him eagerly peeling himself off the sand in pursuit of a shower, some food, and a soft surface to nap on for an hour or three.
Treating themselves to the VIP experience had been a collective decision. High class facilities, no lines; a certain je ne sais quoi added by the still lingering scent of blood and smoke and terror, heavy enough to choke on. By the time they’d been leaving the island, it’d been replaced by the smell of fish rotting in the run. At least their scientists had been in raptures at the chance to study more meg corpses — plus the fucking kraken. Te Wheke-a-Muturangi looking motherfucker should’ve stayed in the trench.
They’d each gone their own way. Dj and his damn backpack off to the left, Rigas following for a while before finding a little villa that caught her attention. Jiuming went right, presumably to keep charming and or threatening people in peace. Meiying darted back towards them, bouncing between Jonas and Mac, chatting about what she was doing and where she was going next and she’d for sure let them know if she saw a Zhang Oceanic logo anywhere.
At the end of that whirlwind, teenager galavanting off into the distance, Mac’d been standing at the door of an empty little guest house with Jonas. He should’ve given the man’s shoulder a rough pat and trundled off to find his own place. It would’ve been smart. Hell, Jonas should’ve gone to find his own place. Who can say why he followed Mac in — and Mac’s sure that Jonas followed him in, not the other way around.
One shower and one bed and both as big as sin. Big enough they didn’t even bother arguing who got to wash clean first. Why bother? They’ve seen each other naked more times than Mac can count; hell, who do you think washed the brit’s fucking back when he busted his ribs all those years ago? It hadn’t been sexual, just two middle aged men standing under a ridiculously fancy shower. Doing their best not to pass out under the barrage of hot water. Level of tired they were both at, it was probably safer to have a buddy system than not.
Tempting as the huge bed had been, hunger had reared its vicious head. They’d moved through the fancy kitchenette like locusts, devouring anything that didn’t need to be cooked first. Towels wrapped around their waists it was almost like they were in their twenties again. Hung over, little more than zombies, bumping into each other and the counters.
Zombies with shit fucking taste, collapsing onto the fancy couch instead of the bed. In their defence, those extra metres really had seemed near insurmountable at the time. Couch was more than big enough for a grown man to stretch out on so the two of them fit well. Hadn’t bothered to keep any space between them. It might’ve been a while since they passed out on a couch together but it’s not really something you forget how to do. Shifting together, turning elbows and shoulders and knees just right.
Towels shifting.
The atmospheric not-silence of a shattered island paradise broken only by their breathing.
Faces too close together.
One kiss.
Another.
God it was so stupid. Mac blames it on the booze, on the last wave of ‘thank christ we survived’ euphoria. That’s the only reason they kissed. The only reason they shifted the towel out from between them, dropped in a damp mess on the floor. Trading lazy handies on that giant lounge, breathing each other’s air; Jonas’ teeth sinking into his shoulder, bruising and perfect.
That fucking stubble rubbing across his chest, a pleased grumble huffed against his neck.
Fighting against encroaching sleep to finish, to extend the moment, to pretend that this is something they could actually do.
Orgasm had been more like a faded sigh than anything world shaking. Sleep already pulling them down, come smeared and drying between them. Mac’s got a load of regrets stacked up from the last handful of days but falling asleep while covered in come is certainly up near the top. He’s how old now? Been playing with his own dick and others for how many decades? And still he didn’t even attempt to scrub off their combined mess.
Their towels had been right there, literally in arms reach.
If no one’s written a paper about the ratio of intelligence to near death experiences Mac’d like to submit himself and Jonas as evidence. Waking up, curled around Jonas Fucking Taylor, literally stuck together by their bad choices — that’s some textbook empirical evidence right there.
At least they hadn’t slept long enough that Meiying came looking for them. Her disgusted scream would’ve jolted them both awake in an instant. Finding your old man asleep on the lounge, dick out and come covered, is not exactly an experience Mac’d wish on anyone.
Walls and skin stained a gorgeous orange-red by the slowly setting sun, they’d groggily peeled apart. It could’ve easily ended there — it should’ve ended there. But there’d still only been one shower, no matter how large, and neither of them wanted to wait. Maybe that’s just the excuse Mac’s been telling himself.
In the shower again, still tired but no longer exhausted. Mutual complaining. Jostling for the best position under the water, as though such a thing existed. The showerhead had been half a metre square above their heads; an equal distribution of water that they’d ignored in favour of elbowing each other. Shoulder knocking against shoulder. Chest against chest. Running their hands all over each other under the pretence of getting clean. So long as they didn’t kiss they could pretend that’s all it was.
That hadn’t lasted long. The same downward spiral as before. One kiss into two into three into Jonas doing his best to tonguefuck Mac’s mouth. Rutting against each other, pressing Jonas up against the cold tile, moaning and laughing and acting like this was something they did.
But that was excusable, too. First time was adrenaline. In the shower was probably also adrenaline, along with being tired enough they hadn’t been thinking clearly.
That third time on the bed? Mouthing his way up Jonas’ thighs with the intention of leaving a mark. Spitting the mess onto Jonas’ stomach cause the bastard didn’t have the decency to warn him before he came. Getting the favour returned; cuddling, after. Staring up into the evening gloom shrouding the room, listening to the noise ramping up outside. Knowing that this little interlude was rapidly drawing to a close.
But, he’d reassured himself, that was the way this thing was always gonna go. And, for a while, he was right. They’d pulled their dirty clothes back on and stumbled out to help with what they could. Meiying had a whole diatribe ready for the pair of them; Jiuming had a smug little smirk and the off hand comment about how it’s lucky he’d dropped by to talk to them earlier instead of sending Meiying.
The aftermath of an attack like that takes some intense coordination to pull off; Mac’d been surprised that he hadn’t been dragged into the fray earlier. Between the scientists and the inter-company organisation efforts and the damn politicians and military, Mac hadn’t had much time to think about anything else. That carried him through the rest of their time on the island, all the way back to Zhang Oceanic’s mainland base; through the rest of the night, through a very late dinner slash breakfast, through the urge to shout at some very foolish people over the phone.
Lunch was more of a blur than not and, by the time he’d stumbled towards the dorms that afternoon, he’d been little more than base impulse. All higher thought left behind in the command centre for somebody else to hopefully use.
So it stands to reason that Mac spent yesterday evening alone, right?
Yet somehow, he didn’t.
‘Somehow’ as though he couldn’t retrace every single step and word which led him here, no matter how exhausted. In the warm light of day Mac has to face the music:
He’s a fucking idiot.
Thank god we’re alive sex probably doesn’t extend to a fourth round a day and a half later, does it?
Jonas is snoring, that same broken nosed whistle muffled by his attempts to suffocate himself against Mac’s chest. Given how hard the man tends to sleep it’d be easy enough for Mac to slide out from underneath him and leave. At this point he’s not sure if that’s the smart thing to do or just cowardly.
A series of somewhat frantic texts — now all an excruciating twenty to twenty seven minutes old — have netted him sweet fuck all in the way of useful advice. His brother left him on read; Dj sent him a gif of a man eating popcorn; he didn’t bother to message Jiuming. If he wanted terrible love advice delivered with delighted aplomb he’d text his mother — and we’ve all agreed to never tell her that Mac thinks her dating advice is bad on pain of death. Mac’s, specifically.
After all that, the only person he’s close enough with to ask is Rigas. Fucking Rigas. Mac honestly doesn’t know why he’d expected anything different than:
>> fuck him again just to make sure
Instead of throwing his phone away in a huff, Mac’d just sighed and looked back over at Jonas. He looks again now; everytime he sees the shape of his mouth bruised into Jonas’ skin, Mac feels another piece of good sense flee into the night. Morning.
No use trying to get back to sleep like this; Jonas snoring, a beam of light shining right across Mac’s damn face. News feed’s still cluttered with his own or Jiuming’s or Jonas’ face — or Driscoll’s — and the clean up and implications of the triple meg attack. His mind’s already mostly overtaken by it, he doesn’t need to have it shoved into his face before he even gets out of bed.
Hell, now he’s just thinking about the damn mining station again. They’ll need to assess it for damage, figure out how to take it apart properly before some other fuckwits set up shop down there. No telling how far and wide Driscoll had been selling their designs, or who knows about the set up, the possibility for profit; money talks louder than sense to some people. If Zhang Oceanic doesn’t take control of the base, someone else will . It’s a goddamned headache of a liability and one that he knows they’re all gonna be arguing about once they’re back in the office.
Changing tack from his series of bad decisions and dismal thoughts, Mac unlocks his phone again. Leaving Rigas on read, as she deserves, he pulls up his chat with Meiying instead. Unlike Mac who’d spent most of his teenage years sleeping as late as possible — which’d never been as late as he’d wanted — Meiying’s a freak of nature: a teenaged morning person. When he texts her she replies within a minute, phone clearly already in hand.
<< Good morning. Sleep well?
>> so.
Which, Mac would like it known, feels like an extremely dubious message to receive from anyone. Especially from a kid who is — nominally, dubiously, via having half raised her — his. Eyes narrowing with suspicion he starts typing out a response but doesn’t even get to send it before her next message pops up. Immediately followed by several more.
>> don’t freak out
>> ok bad message to send bad vibe
>> nothings wrong
>> fr! all g with me!
>> i’m saying don’t freak out when i tell you that i know
>> about you and dad
>> you’re not subtle!
>> also jiujiu told me
Ah. Mac’s gonna push Jiuming into the ocean.
Typing out a response is… difficult. What the hell can he say, after all? Sorry you’ve misunderstood when Jonas is literally snuggled up to him while he’s staring down at his phone? It’s a one time thing! Even though that ship died in a spectacular explosion last night. Mind your business would backfire in the most spectacular way and, technically, this is her business. Obviously not the details but the broad strokes definitely concern her. If this extended mistake fucks up his and Jonas’ ability to work together, their friendship…
>> i can see you typing and deleting btw
>> mac
>> come on
>> i’m not a little kid you can talk to me
>> actually i’ll start
>> happy for you!!
>> but
>> it’s time to dtr
<< what?
>> define the relationship
>> you and dad
>> it’s time
What.
Considering his phone Mac hums, tilts his head, and makes his first actual good decision of the day. Phone turned off, he drops it on the nightstand and stares at the ceiling so he doesn’t start staring at Jonas. All the trouble of getting a new phone — downloading all the little time waster games which’d proliferated his old phone — just so he can get harassed by the kid whose diapers he helped change.
‘Define the relationship’, jesus christ.
Throwing an arm over his face, Mac resolves to go the fuck back to sleep. It’s Jonas’ turn to wake up first and broil with the awkwardness of this whole situation. Mac’s gonna sleep until someone needs his expertise or opinion enough that they physically come track him down. Another benefit of turning off his phone.
.
.
.
…
Heaving a sigh, Mac keeps staring at the back of his eyelids. Not exactly a shocker that that didn’t work but still disappointing. No harm in keeping up the ruse; he mightn’t be sleeping but at least like this, he doesn’t have a face full of light. There’s no telling how much time passes while he lays there, absently hoping he manages to drift away some time soon. Could be an hour, could be three minutes.
Maybe he could be using this time to figure out what the fuck to do about this situation with Jonas. He should be doing that, probably, but…
This time it’s absolutely Jonas’ fault so that means he gets to deal with it, right? Mac had been half sleep walking to his own room, his own bed — alone — when he’d been waylaid by a gruff voice and a shoulder knocking against his own. What Jonas said to convince him to follow, Mac doesn’t know. ‘Convince’ is probably a stretch; he would’ve changed course with something as simple as a jerk of the head and an off hand ‘come on, then.’
Mac’s too tired to remember the night with any detail; the type of overtired where sobriety has fled the building. Wouldn’t that be another perfect excuse, to dovetail neatly with the survivor’s adrenaline? Everyone knows drunk sex is always a mistake. Mac fucking wishes that’s what they did. Instead it’s — they —
Brushing their teeth. Throwing their clothes in the direction of the hamper. Falling into bed and groaning when Jonas nudged him repeatedly in the side because he’d trapped the covers beneath him. Moving as little as possible, smiling faintly into the pillow as Jonas laughed at his petulance. Sheets thrown over his bare back. Jonas crawling in beside him, warm and pleasant against Mac’s side.
Rolling over for that, for him, so that they could cuddle.
Domesticity. Simple intimacies; so much worse than if they’d fucked.
“Time ‘s it?”
Mac almost jumps out of his damn skin at the sudden sound. In response to his body pillow jolting, Jonas groans in protest and follows that up with a scrape of his teeth against Mac’s skin, the bastard.
“Oi. What if you woke me up?”
“I didn’t.”
“You could’ve, inconsiderate prick.”
“Oh, you sleep with your arm over your face now, do you? Comfortable, is it?”
Grinding his forearm into his face for a moment, Mac heaves a sigh. Lowers his arm and, reluctantly, looks down at Jonas. Eyes still heavy with sleep, looking heavily disgruntled to be awake, Jonas stares back.
“You’re thinking so hard it’s giving me a headache,” Jonas grumbles
There’s a dozen things Mac could say, here. It’d be easy enough to play it off; make a joke about smelling smoke or how little thinking it takes for Jonas to get a headache or anything along those lines. Might get an elbow to the side for it — more likely a pinch or another bite, given the way they’re still tangled together — but at least they wouldn’t have to talk. Talk shit and banter? Easy.
Talk about whatever the fuck they’ve been doing over the past couple of days?
Mac really wants to keep avoiding that, to be honest.
Wouldn’t that be easier? No awkward conversation. Give it a day or two and it’ll fizzle out. Didn’t Mac used to know the truth of it? Three days with Jonas and you’re trying to jump out a bathroom window at five in the morning.
…Alright, so he’s known Jonas longer than three days. And, if he’s inclined be to realistic about the matter — which, admittedly, has been hit or miss over the years — then Mac’s wanted Jonas for a lot longer than three days and in all that time he’s only climbed out of one bathroom window and that was actually Lori’s fault; Jonas had been scampering out with him, the prick.
Worst case scenario, they fall back into the way thing’s’ve been for the past decade.
Best case scenario —
Fuck.
There’s no real use weighing the pros and cons of talking about it, is there?
“Jonas, this is a bad idea.”
“Why’s that?” Maybe it’s been weighing on Jonas’ mind, too, given how he doesn’t need to ask what Mac’s talking about.
“Because —” Mac clicks his tongue, cycling through the reasons in his own mind and coming to the discomforting realisation that… they’ve all worn a bit thin. His best argument has always been that Jonas is shit at romantic entanglements — but given his years long marriage to Suyin, that one doesn’t really hold water anymore. What else is there?
Silence settles heavy around them.
“You know you don’t have to have a reason.” Jonas sits up, shifting to face Mac properly. They’re still touching but the loss of Jonas’ warmth against his side does feel like a loss. Like… something that might be slipping through his fingers; a mistake not yet consolidated into regret.
“Just say you don’t want to. I’m a big boy, Mac, I can take it.”
Ah fuck.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
There’s no long silence, just Jonas smiling, slow and sure.
“‘S that right? Seems like the opposite of a problem, considering.”
“Considering what?”
Jonas leans down and kisses him, deeply and slowly and Mac breaks away with a scoff.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Fucking prick,” Mac scoffs, wishing he didn’t find Jonas endearing even when he’s being a bit of a shitcunt.
“You want a grand declaration? I could get you some flowers.”
“Oh you could, could you? From where.” As soon as he says it Mac remembers that they’re not at Mana One; that Mana One’s been torn half to shreds — again — and they’re on the mainland. Jonas could just pop out to pick up a bouquet, if he wanted.
“Well. Maybe some kelp,” the man muses, apparently having also forgotten that there’s probably a flower shop within a few clicks of them. “Sea sponge. Could I interest you in some rose scented potpourri?”
“You’ve got rose scented potpourri?”
“Course not. But I could nick some off Rigas.”
Mac stares up at Jonas and takes a second to process. Blinks.
“It’s actually more jarring that Rigas has rose scented potpourri.”
“Failing roses or their equivalent —” Jonas starts, ignoring Mac’s derisive,
Oh, potpourri’s equivalent now, is it?
“What about, I love you too.”
“Well shit,” Mac says, mouth running ahead of his brain. Jonas rolls his eyes and then flops back down, fitting himself against Mac's side. It's easier than breathing to curl his arm around Jonas, hand sliding against bare skin, and pull him even closer.
“What a rousing response. Ever thought about writing greeting cards?”
“They couldn’t handle my charm.”
“I’ll bet.” A pause, then Jonas says, “Now what?”
Mac shrugs, shifting enough to brush a smiling kiss against Jonas’ head.
“Could go a blowie, to be honest.”
Jonas huffs a laugh into Mac's chest but, crucially, that's not a no.