Under Pressure - Septiplier

Chapter Fifty

 Jack rolls over on the couch, fidgeting for a moment before fixing his blanket and curling up around his laptop. It wobbles on its side for a few moments before falling still, and Jack clicks the email notification popping up. It's Mark, nervous, beautiful, sweet Mark. His email is short this time, straight to the point.

Subject: Chill

Do you want to go to the park again tomorrow?

Thanks,

Mark

Jack's lips curl into a smile, speaking of wistful, drifting thoughts and wilted, drooping regret. He sighs and reads over it one more time before composing his response.

Re: Chill

Can't. My parents want me to spend time with the family on Sundays.

Sorry,

Jack

The cursor blinks at him with a ticking impatience as he circles his mouse around the send button. He chews on his lip and watches the cursor for a moment, delaying the inevitable. He presses the button and closes the website, going back to his textbook and notes with a sigh. The textbook pages flutter as he turns them, teasingly reminiscent of the flap of startled birds on the water as the teenagers break onto the shoreline of the pond from the woods. Jack lets the laptop slide to the side, and he closes it with a click, cutting off the lure to Mark. He stands and makes his way to the kitchen table to work, leaving the laptop behind.

Mark sits at his desk, rocking in his chair and blinking a bit as he waits for a reply. He stills and stares at the computer screen with an unblinking gaze, perfectly patient, yet yearning for an answer. The clock turns another minute, and Mark presses his clicker a few times. He jerks at the notification sound, shaking his head sharply before leaning forward, hastily clicking into the response. The boy's eyes read over it several times, and he slumps back. His hair droops into his eyes, deflated like the hope in his mind.

He shouldn't have reached out.

He shouldn't have pressed his luck.

Mark shuts down the computer and stands, getting ready for his therapy appointment. He shoves his glasses into their case and fluffs his hair before making his way downstairs. His mom is in the kitchen, and she looks as Mark enters, her burgundy lips curling into a smile.

"Ready kiddo?"

Mark nods.

"Alright, go on ahead to the car, I'm just gonna get some water," she says, grabbing a water bottle and beginning to unscrew it. Mark goes to the garage, climbing into the passenger seat. He buckles up and stares at the dashboard, tracing the tiny cracks in the leather with his eyes. For the right half of the dashboard, there are four thousand small islands in the leather. He likes to count things. It calms him down, and it's right. Everything needs to be accounted for. Every little island, every crack, and diversion in the leather. His mom climbs in and starts up the car, jerking Mark out of his counting daze.

"Do you think it'll be a long one today? I've got to grab some groceries," she asks as she pulls out of the driveway, making her way out of the neighborhood—Mark fiddles with his fingers and nods.

"Do you... Do you at least talk with Mr. Josh?" she questions, voice pushing against the boundaries of their relationship to try and get closer to her son. Mark curls his shoulders in, feeling the borders press around him. He shrugs, gives a "so-so" gesture with his hand, and turns his head away, looking out the window. The sigh from his mother makes him squeeze his eyes shut. The sigh is soaked with confusion and worry, heavy and gross like breathing with pneumonia. Mark is a sickness. He plagues his family, embedded in the system, leaving them tired and weak.