Under Pressure - Septiplier

Chapter Fifty One

Mark sits at lunch, poking at the rice with his chopsticks. He's not hungry, and even though he typically enjoys the lunch in front of him, it is unappetizing today. Jack is next to him, happily munching away at the school's lunch for today. It's been two weeks since Jack told him no. During school, he's acting the same. Jack still sits in the classroom with Mark, and Mark knows it's all part of the plan. Jack's slowly beginning to distance himself. First, it's no more Sundays, then it'll be he can't do lunch, then it'll be he can't be Mark's partner for the projects, and he'll sit somewhere else in the room. That's how it was with Ethan and Amy. The break in the friendship was a slow split, moving like tectonic plates with creeping, inevitable power. The group split apart, hot lava and suppressed issues bubbling up to build vast mountainous barriers to keep them separated.

Jack is typing away on his computer, eating with one hand, and drafting an email with the other. It's a quiet day. Mark takes a moment to look at Jack, taking in his profile. His bushy brows furrow deep, ear arched up in a sharp point, blue eyes glinting with the reflection of the computer, and nose curving up as he lightly bites his tongue, concentrating fiercely. He looks like a hipster elf, and Mark snorts at the thought.

"Oi, what are you laughing at?" Jack asks, turning to look at Mark with narrowed eyes and an exaggerated pout. Mark stills, not recognizing the joke in the facial expressions.

"O-oh, sorry," he mumbles, looking back down and hastily shoving some rice into his mouth. Jack clicks his tongue and leans over.

"I'm just messing with you, silly," he reassures, before pressing send on his email. For a long moment, Mark stares at Jack, desperately trying to read his body language and tone for clues. His cheeks are stuffed full of rice, and Jack smirks, leaning forward to poke his cheek before laughing and pulling away. Mark stares at the teenager in utter shock before swallowing his mouthful of rice. His phone buzzes in his pocket. The sound startles Mark, and he hastily sets down his chopsticks, which slide off the propped up lid. Mark frowns and repeats the action, only for it to happen again. The phone drifts from his mind, and his focus narrows. He tries several more times, the scowl on his face growing with each attempt. Jack rests a hand on his wrist, stilling the actions. Mark stares at those pale fingers as they curl around his forearm, holding him in place.

"Maybe finish your lunch up before checking the notification," Jack proposes. He pats Mark's wrist and pulls away, closing his laptop and going back to his own meal. Mark takes a deep breath, clearing out the frustration. He nods and begins eating again, albeit with a sense of begrudging duty to not waste the food before him. He doesn't like the color of the situation. The dull browns and muted tones of it all. It doesn't seem right. Not with the gentle contact. Not with the physical closeness Jack initiated. The chopsticks are so dull and plain, pale brown, almost beige wood. The desk is a gross laminate and an old and grimy brown that desperately tries to imitate wood but utterly fails. He finishes lunch and goes to the rest of his classes, phone slipping from his mind. When he gets home, he doesn't bother unpacking his bag or anything of the sort. Mark goes straight to bed, flopping into the mattress and cocooning himself in the blankets and sheets. The teenager eventually emerges from his comfortable haven of respite, sits at his desk, turns on his computer, and goes through his notifications.

There's an email from Jack.

Received at 12:28.

Jack was the one who sent him something during lunch. Mark smiles at the thought, reflecting on the concentration and effort pressed into every letter of the email Jack typed up. Jack spent almost all of lunch on this, even though it's quite short. There is intention in every word, every sentence, every quip, every question.

Subject: Hangout

Hey Mark,

It's been quite a long time since we spent some quality time together, hasn't it? I've been busy, and that makes me sad because I loved spending time with you. If you're able to do so, meet me in front of the candy shop two blocks south of the school, by the red fire hydrant. Really obscure, I know, but there's something cool I want to do, and that location is important. Precisely at 6:30 p.m. on the dot. Don't be late, because we're on a tight schedule from 6:30 on. If you can do it, there's no need to even reply. If you can't, let me know.

Lots of love, XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO,

Jack

P.S.

This isn't a drug deal, I swear.

Mark reads it over, then reads it over again. A breath of relief gushes from his lungs as he slumps back in his chair, grinning at the computer. What an email. It's somehow chaotic and well-organized at the same time. It starts off so well, formal, elegant, reminiscent, and dramatic. Then it becomes earnest and matter-of-fact as Jack lays down the oddly specific directions. Mark blushes and smiles at the sign off Jack uses. Obviously, it's a joke, but Mark can still hope. The teenager giggles at the drug deal joke. He was, in all honesty, concerned while he read it, but he trusts Jack.

Mark laughs and pushes his chair away from his desk and into a spin, whirling around as the room turns to a delicious blur of soft color and light, sounds errant and wispy in the empty space. They can move at lightspeed again.

There's either going to be 68 or 69 chapters. I'm gunning for sixty-nine, for obvious reasons lol, but we're nearing the end guys 0-0