after all these years

Three

Mark stops in front of the mirror, letting his eyes roam over his exposed chest. There are curves and dips he's never noticed before, not like this, and he catches himself briefly wondering if She would like them. If She would bite her lip and lean forward like she always did when he took his shirt off.

But then he realizes it doesn't matter. She's gone, Amy is still here, and he's not fifteen anymore. He shouldn't care about what She thinks.

Letting out a harsh sigh, he moves on from the mirror, shuffling out into his bedroom. The heavy steam made his head foggy in the shower, and he wonders if it attached itself to him because he suddenly has a hard time thinking.

Amy looks up from her spot on the bed, and her eyes dart behind him before going back to her phone. "You were in there for a while. Going for the world-record water bill?"

He jolts, suddenly realizing just how swampy the bathroom was compared to their bedroom, and rubs his hands on the damp towel clinging to his waist. "Sorry. Was dirty."

Choosing to ignore the way her eyebrow raises at that, he makes his way over to the closet, thumbing through the shirts hanging up. Red, green, yellow, red, red, blue, red. The colors all blur together to him, and he lets out a small whine in frustration. Why can't he think?

Amy shifts behind him, and something about the sound of her jeans on the bed sheets sends alarm bells off in his head. It's all he can think about, and the vague sense of panic that's quickly rising in his throat clears out the sticky cobwebs in his head from before.

"Fuck, you look so nice under me like this."

Amy shifts again, and nausea swells within him. "Stop. Please," he begs. It's hard to focus on anything, and he's not even sure if he spoke out loud until Amy replies.

"Stop what?" She shifts again, and Mark chokes back a sob. Why is he reacting like this? What's so horrible about jeans on a bed?

"Doing that. That noise." He bites his lip, and the pain grounds him. Clears away the fog. "Your jeans on the bed."

A silence hangs between them, and Amy hums. "Okay. I'm changing, stay turned around." There's a squeak of bedsprings, and then a solid minute of rustling before she speaks again. "I'm good now."

When he turns, Amy is wearing the soft pink shorts again, and something loosens in his chest. "I like those shorts," he murmurs, "they're nice."

She smiles, and it's really no surprise when he feels his mouth move too because her smiles have always been so infectious. "You didn't seem to like them when you tried to take them off me the other day." And then he knows he's fucked because his smile falls and Amy's does, too.

"I - I didn't want. To take them off of you." Amy's face falls even further, if that's even possible, and he backtracks, "not because I don't think you're pretty! I just - didn't want to do that. Sorry I made you uncomfortable."

Mark looks up at her - when did he start looking at the floor? - and flinches at her expression. He doesn't register much other than how upset she looks, and before he can even think he's reaching out and sitting on the bed next to her, resting a hand on her thigh.

Amy moves away from him, carefully picking up his hand and resting it on the bed beside them. She runs a hand through her hair, and Mark watches the way the light bounces off it. "You - didn't make me uncomfortable," she starts, jerkily. "Why did you try to... initiate if you -" eyes widening, she finally looks back up at him, face scrunched up like she was figuring out a puzzle. "Were you serious about proving you weren't tired?"

A string on the duvet catches his eye, and he picks at it absent-mindedly. It helps distract him from how intense Amy's gaze is. "Yeah." The string breaks, and he bounces slightly on the bed. "Didn't want you to think I was mad at you or something."