after all these years

Nine

Mark doesn't remember the first time he punched a hole in something.

He'd like to say that he does, for the sake of his conscience, but it happened so long ago that he can't honestly recall anything about it, except for the fact that he kept doing it.

It's... It's probably the worst way to deal with anger that he's found. But it's the quickest, so he understands why he had done it in the past. He'd never forgive himself for it, but he understands.

He doesn't understand why he punched the fucking wall during the presidential fitness test, though.

Ethan had jerked back, eyes wide and and mouth open, and Mark felt the drywall crumble around his hand just a little bit more, bouncing off of his hand and falling slowly to the floor. Blood had trickled after, and he had just stepped aside as Mark rushed off to the bathroom to dress his injuries.

That same expression is mirrored now, except this time Mark is holding the handle of a now-shattered mug, watching the way it hangs dejectedly on his hand without the weight of the rest of the cup.

"Mark," Ethan whispers, hand clenching and unclenching around his own shatterable mug like he's afraid Mark will reach over and break it, too. "Mark, what the fuck."

"I - I don't - I'm sorry..." He takes a small step forward, just to do something, and the leftover shards of ceramics crunch under his shoes. "Fuck. I need - broom."

Ethan makes no move to help him, and the slight glimmer of fear is enough to have Mark jerking into action and scampering into the laundry room.

Mark cleans up, in the few minutes of silence that follow. Ethan leaves his spot once, and when he comes back Mark can't look him in the eye.

"Was that one of Amy's?" he finally asks. There's a quiet shuffling, like he's fidgeting with something, but Mark's gaze is fixed solidly on the dirt speckling the sides of his shoes. He had thought the same thing, when the mug had made that god-awful sound upon breaking, and had thoroughly checked every shard for any sign of Amy being the creator.

"No, it was store-bought."

There's another silence, and then Ethan is shuffling forward. Mark's gaze snaps up to him, finally, and almost immediately the younger man jerks his hands up to chest height, palms flat and open as he creeps towards him like he's approaching a scared dog.

Mark doesn't even notice that he's frozen in place until Ethan is in front of him, slowly reaching a hand out. He recoils, instinctively, and his friend flinches back.

"Okay, I'm just checking your hands," Ethan says, gesturing to the jaggedy broken handle still lying on the counter. Fuck, he had forgotten about that. "I'm not - I just want to see if you're okay."

Mark nods, slowly, and then shakily raises his arms, letting Ethan step forward and give his (surprisingly unscathed) hands a cursory glance.

"I didn't mean to," he mutters, once Ethan returns to his side of the counter. The younger man simply hums and sits down, putting some space between them, and Mark tries not to think about that. "I'm sorry."

"I know. Wanna talk about what happened?"

"Not really," he jokes. Ethan gives him a flat stare for his efforts. "Sorry. Um." The coffee machine beeps, finally deciding to work, and he takes a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts. "I - I got angry, and frustrated, so I..." he gestures lamely to the space in front of him, knowing Ethan will understand even if he doesn't say it. "I don't know why I did it."

Ethan doesn't say anything after that. Mark watches him toy with the handle of his mug, taking a few slow sips here and there, and then he's looking down at the counter between them with a drawn-out sigh. "This can't keep happening, Mark."

Mark swallows. It feels like he's being torn apart - like tiny glass shards are tearing through his skin and leaving nothing but the bloody, raw bits underneath, blistering and sensitive even in the stagnant air of the room.