Bully || Septiplier

Chapter Twelve

400 reads (update: now 500 wtf) in a few days?! What the actual fuck thank you so much <3
okay onto the story

IT WAS MIDNIGHT AND JACK and Mark were drinking. How they weren't passed out on the ground was unbeknownst to them, because after sharing his mothers bottle of vodka and a few (read: many) beer cans from the fridge, any normal functioning human being would be on the floor surrounded by drool and alcohol. Then again, Mark and Jack weren't normal, not in the least way.

Jack didn't even know how they started drinking. He hadn't planned on it, in fact all he planned on doing was basically just making out with Mark. But Jack's mother was at work on night shift, so after sneaking Mark in and managing to get to his bedroom, this was pretty much how their conversation went:

"Hey, you wanna make ou-"
"Got any alcohol?"
"Yeah, sure, alcohol, let's go get it from the fridge,"

And so it began. Jack hated stealing it from his parents, but maybe he was driven by the urge to seem cool to Mark or the urge to keep him inside of his otherwise boring house for more than a half hour. In fact, Mark said he'd leave in two hours four hours ago, to which Jack considered a success.

But if getting Mark Fischbach drunk was on his bucket list, getting himself drunk was definitely not because Jack knew his system didn't take alcohol too well. And, after six hours of playing shot games, kissing, laughing and chatting while downing glasses of vodka, the waves of nausea began to hit and a pit grew in Jack's stomach.

"Shit," he whispered when he felt his stomach muscles begin to tense up, and a burning wave of bile begin to run up his throat. His first instinct was to immediately hunch over, clasping his stomach.

"What's wrong?" Mark looked at him with a dulled concern in his eyes after swallowing back another shot.

"Um, just a cramp, I'm fine." He tried to smile convincingly and straighten himself, even though it sent a jolt of pain through him. The last thing he wanted to be was the lame kid who couldn't keep down a few drinks. He'd ease through the pain for Mark, not waning to ruin their fun.

"Alright," said the other boy, who shrugged it off and smiled. Intoxicated Mark was more forgiving, let go of things more easily and was more like he used to be back then. Back when they were best friends, soul mates, and bottom line gay. Jack liked to believe nothing changed at times like this, but it was unfair to use intoxicated Mark like that, as a getaway from reality. He was also trying to monitor his drinks to make sure he didn't get too wasted, because he didn't want to accidentally say something stupid. A drunk mans words are a sober mans thoughts, or whatever the saying was. A drunk mans thoughts are also a drunk mans.. Vomit?

That didn't make sense, nor did the feeling of being both hot and cold at the same time. And then he was loosing it, and he felt the wave approaching, and he hunched over again and broke a sweat. Stomach in pain, he groaned. "I'm going to throw up."

Almost immediately - though slightly delayed, because you know, he was drunk and all - Mark took Jack (also known as the sweating, crumpled mess) and lead him out of his room. "Where's the nearest bathroom?" And then Jack, quickly as possible, directed him around his house to the bathroom. And then, a heartbeat later they were at the toilet seat, Mark had his arms softly wrapped around Jack's waist as they kneeled on the bathroom floor, and the Irishman was grasping onto the rim of the toilet as he began to throw up. It wasn't a romantic scene, not in any way but it was Jack and Mark and they weren't romantic. They were a mess. A drunk, troublesome mess of lies and kisses later regretted and popularity and heartbreak.

After what felt like forever, the toilet was being flushed and Jack was sitting  on the bathroom floor, cold sweat running down his hot body. He felt like shit, but Mark was hugging him from behind and again opposite feelings of happiness and being miserable clashed.

"Are you okay?" Mark murmured, causing Jack's stomach to flutter but not in the same way as being sick. No, he wasn't okay, but he wasn't going to admit that.

"You're here so yeah, I'll live." And Mark smiled and Jack smiled and it was almost a cliche scene - until Jack let out a low sound again and grasped his stomach, where Mark's hands were.

"Are you going to be sick again?" Jack shook his head. "Okay. Let's get you to bed." And so they got up, slowly, and walked back to his bedroom.

Jack sat on his bed, miserable, while Mark collected the beer cans and the almost-empty vodka bottle. He put the cans in Jack's trash can near the front of the room, and temporarily hid the bottle under the bed. Jack noticed he was slightly stumbling around his room, getting these things done, but it was both amusing and heartwarming that intoxicated Mark could be responsible.

Mark grabbed his trash can and put it beside the bed, "In case you throw up again." And then Mark turned to him, and the word was still. They kind of looked at each other, Mark handsome and drunk, Jack sick and lost, but it didn't seem to phase him. Because in a blur of moments, Mark was standing in front of Jack, and helping him take off his shirt, discard his pants. Maybe he asked him if he was okay with sleeping in just his boxers, Jack wasn't completely aware but maybe he nodded in response.

Then Jack had his head on his pillow, blue eyes staring up at Mark who was tucking him in like a child. Jack didn't mind. And then brown eyes connected with blue and Jack felt electric currents shoot through him, almost making him vomit again in chain reaction but not quite.

"Do you want me to go?" whispered Mark. Without thinking, Jack shook his head softly.

"Do you want to go?" When Mark shook his own head and smiled his charming, slightly drunk smile, Jack caught the contagiousness and smiled himself. Then he was serious, "I might throw up on you."

"I don't care." Even though Jack knew Mark probably did, so he made a mental note not to throw up on Mark. "Do you mind if I get undressed? I can't sleep or even lay down in my clothes." And of course, Jack said yes, because to have Mark Fischbach near-naked in his bed? Hell yes, an opportunity he'd take. Even though drunk Mark was much different than normal Mark, it didn't matter.

So Jack tried not to look as Mark undressed, tossing his shirt somewhere and his pants somewhere else, and then sheepishly climbing into bed beside Jack. He felt the blankets shift and move and, thank god Mark wasn't one of the blanket hoarders, Jack thought as everything went still.

It took a while, and maybe too long of staring up at the ceiling. Jack was laying there, eyes wide open, and he knew Mark wasn't asleep yet - because Jack was sure his thoughts were screaming, waking everything close to him. Cuddle me. Hold me close. Kiss me. Whisper to me, his thoughts roared, and maybe Mark could read his thoughts because eventually there was some shifting and the feeling of a warm hand on the small of his back.

It was an eager gesture, almost asking permission, saying is this okay?, and of course Jack stayed still and to say yes in his own way, shifted closer to the other boy in his bed. Jack didn't even think he'd get a girl in his bed, never mind Mark, but here he was and life didn't make sense but when Mark wrapped his arm around Jack's waist and pulled him close, he wasn't complaining.

They stayed like this, almost intertwined as one human being until there was a soft feeling in the back of Jack's head (he assumed it was Mark's lips, kissing him, and this made his stomach flutter). And then Jack drifted off, at peace, mind relaxed and happy and heartbeat steady.

He slept until it was morning, and then only to realize Mark wasn't there.