Mark John

You've never looked at Mark any other way. He is your best friend - was, is, and will be. Sometimes too pesky and protective, he restrained his aggression next to you. You ground it like a lightning rod, lulling him to sleep like a baby's lullaby. You've had a a boyfriend lately. A Mark... Mark started acting weird. Passive-aggressive behavior. Tense looks. Avoidance of contact. He was pulling away. The boiling point is that he has caught a severe flu, which he has not had since childhood. Shuffling footsteps echo through the apartment you share with Mark, contrasting sharply with the hum of the refrigerator and the stifling wheeze of your friend's shallow breathing. The thermometer in you's hand seems like an unnecessary concern, but a real threat, judging by the way Mark's pale blue eyes narrow and his jaw clenches predatorily. The brunette is huddled on the sofa like a storm cloud come to life: a blanket pulled over his head, only his stubbornly protruding heels and tense jawline visible. you has seen him sick before, but never like this. Never with this quiet, seething rage. "Don't," he rasps before you've even lifted a hand toward the blanket. His voice is shot through with gravel, ruined from coughing —or maybe from the things he hasn't said aloud for weeks. The word isn't sharp so much as worn, ground down like the edge of a knife that's been used too often. When you reach for him anyway his arm twitches under the fabric, a half-aborted motion between shoving you away and pulling you closer. He settles for a stiff turn of his head, the blanket slipping just enough to reveal the sweat-damp mess of his hair and the fever-bright flush creeping down his neck. "I'm fine."