Chapter Text
'You said you were going to surprise me.'
You can't say much else as you stare at Mary. You're standing in his doorway as he scrabbles through a pile of unopened mail for the key to his apartment, and he's dressed exactly the way he dresses for Repugnant shows. He looks up at you when he retrieves it, and grins.
'Well, you look pretty damn surprised right now, I gotta say,' he says.
You fold your arms. To be fair, you can't pretend you've put much effort in yourself. You've done the classic raid of your wardrobe to assemble a costume out of stuff you already own. It was easy enough: jeans, a pair of cowboy boots you wear to rock clubs when you're feeling particularly ostentatious, and a plaid shirt. The pea coat you've had to wrap around yourself for warmth spoils things a bit, but you'll find a safe place for that later. There is literally no point even bothering with a cowboy hat. Some dickhead will nick it at some point.
It isn't as though you're fully committed to this party, anyway – it's more just habit these days. Alex has been throwing some kind of get-together since you first met in college, and the nature of it shifts every year to accommodate where you are in your lives. This year it's a straightforward enough house party, which would be OK, but it's the first time you've had a plus one to introduce to your friends and you're not keen on the idea of navigating that eventuality with an extra mass of people you barely know yourself.
And your plus one promised he was going to go all out with his costume, but right now, he is literally standing in front of you in his work uniform, shrugging the skankiest old leather jacket on over his Morbid Angel t-shirt.
'Like your costume isn't the laziest fucking thing you could've come up with,' he says, shifting you out of the way so he can lock the door. You do try not to spend too much time in Mary's horrible apartment anyway. 'You can't talk.'
You open your arms in outrage. 'I did this for you, you shit! I thought you'd get it!' He just stares at you, and you affect his gutteral vocal style for a dire impersonation of him. 'Voices of the deeeeeaaaad?'
It makes him chuckle. 'Fuck. Sorry. I forgot I did that …'
He reaches for your hand absently, and you link your fingers through his as you start walking.
'Is it far?' he says.
'Twenty minutes? Just out of town past the school.'
'Oh! You have posh friends,' Mary says, and you can't quite tell if he's impressed or expressing a sarcastic sort of disdain.
'They aren't posh, they just have … more money than I do,' you say. 'It's bank of Mum and Dad sort of stuff, though.'
'So they have money and they come from wholesome family backgrounds? Right. Now I see why you've never introduced me to them before. We aren't gonna get on, are we?'
The truth is, they probably aren't. These friends are your friends because of a shared history – they were there when you experienced your first, stupid heartbreak, when you lost your mother in a car crash, and when you binged an entire cheesecake that one breaktime at college. They were also there to rub your back as you threw it back up again later. And it's these quirks and stories that keep you solid, even after your paths in life diverged and some of them married and had kids and some of them were given entire houses by their parents who could afford to dole out property.
And some of them still work in the same bar they've worked in since they were twenty-one, while studying photography part-time to make up for the shitshow college ended up being for them, and are dating some absolute gremlin whose band played there earlier this year.
'Look,' you sigh, 'I just need you to behave yourself for the night, all right? You and them aren't going to be natural bedfellows or anything, but they're my friends and you're my –'
You cut yourself off, and Mary lets go of your hand to slide his into your jeans pocket and squeeze.
'I'm your what?' He leans right in and you can smell the whiskey he's no doubt shotted to get himself pumped for such an uncomfortable night.
'Well.' You give a huge swallow – there's a weird lump in your throat, all of a sudden, that's tricky to shift. 'If I were to introduce you to someone, what would you want me to say? Hey Alex, this is Mary, my …?'
He digs his nails into your ass, and you hiss.
'Fuck puppet?' he teases. 'Beau? Squeeze? Better half? Are we there yet? Is that what you've been telling people?'
'Stop it,' you say. 'I'm serious. I don't know what I'm supposed to tell people.'
'And you really want to have this conversation on the way to a Hallowe'en party?'
You shift a little, trying to lean away from him, but he grips your ass harder still and you submit. 'Of course not. I just want to be able to introduce you to my friends without pissing you off, that's all.'
'Fine. In that case, I guess you can say boyfriend for now and we'll discuss what I actually am after the party …'
He nuzzles into your neck, and you think he's being affectionate until you feel the nip of his teeth. 'Oi. Mary. Not now, yeah? The last one just healed and I don't want to rock up to a party with a proper brand new one …'
'Well, that would be your problem. If you'd brought a neckerchief …' Mary mumbles, but he makes do with a kiss instead before straightening up again. 'Some fucking John Wayne you are, huh?'
'Again. You promised me a surprise. Dressing as you is not a surprise.'
'It was the last thing you were expecting, though!'
'I'm still pissed off.' But you aren't. You're still sort of reeling from Mary's use of the word 'boyfriend' – even if there's a chance he might retract it later. He removes his hand from your pocket and it slips against the bag you have slung over your shoulder.
'Hey. You've brought your real camera!' he says.
'None of my cameras are pretend, Mary.'
'You know what I mean. The – SLR?' You nod, with some genuine pride. 'That's a big one for a casual party?'
'There's a lot of fun to be had with Hallowe'en backdrops and costumes,' you say. 'I think Alex sort of wants me to be a roving photobooth. At least that'll give me some focus when I hardly know anyone.'
'So I'm going to be your caddy,' Mary grumbles.
'You will literally prefer that to mingling with my lovely normie friends.'
'So you understand why I'm wondering why we even agreed to come to this party.'
You do understand. When you consider it, you know you'd feel awkward in his position. Even if he does exude a massive amount of arrogance, he's not crazy about socialising with a load of strangers at once, and you know that. But once tonight is out of the way, he'll be able to blend into your life with a lot more ease. And, perhaps more pressingly, when you talk to your friends about 'Mary' they'll have a much clearer picture of the little hellion. Right now, you're pretty sure they imagine a clean-cut girl in a frock, no matter how many times you tell them he is in fact a man you met when he almost concussed you at work with a pint glass.
By accident. You're pretty sure.
The outskirts of town are making way for the telltale detached houses and double garages of rich villagers. Land Rovers and Jaguars abound, and you feel out of place already. You slide an arm under his jacket and wrap it around his tiny waist. 'We don't have to stay all night,' you say quietly. 'I don't think I'll last that long anyway knowing you're going to be holding back that hickey the whole time.'
'I'm glad you haven't forgotten about that, because I haven't, either. I wonder if we can make it part of the photobooth thing … tell people we used makeup … hey!' He stops in his tracks, distracted, and you follow his gaze. You're approaching a village green, all tree-lined picture-book serendipity, with a small, 12th century (you'd guess, but like hell you'd know) church lying just beyond in its own graveyard. 'How fucking … perfect is that? Do we have time to explore? There'll be no one around, right?'
'Hm. Yeah, I'm not convinced graveyards are where most people choose to spend their Hallowe'en nights,' you say. Thank God it's a little too late for trick or treaters to still be roaming. 'Ten minutes?'
You've never quite found yourself as fascinated with death as Mary, but his excitement does excite you.
'Get your camera out, this is gonna be great.' He grabs your hand again and pulls you across the green, kicking damp leaves out of the way with his nasty combat boots.
The church is a vision, you have to concede. The sky is clear, stars and a Hunter's Moon visible beyond the spire and the huge, weeping willow that stands amongst the old graves. It almost makes you want to believe in God or something.
'Fuck …' Mary whispers. 'How have I never been here before?'
'Maybe because you're not fancy enough to ever have set foot in a village?' you suggest. 'And don't say “fuck” in a graveyard. It sounds wrong somehow.'
'What, you getting all high and mighty on me now, baby?' he says. 'Is it wrong to take photos in graveyards, too?'
You shrug. The church, and the graves, all seem old enough that you think you can get away with it, and the church really is a thing of beauty in and of itself. But you have a feeling Mary has his own vision, and he wants you to help him realise it. You check your phone. Yeah, you can afford to spend a bit of time getting a few night shots. You don't have your tripod but as long as no one sees you using a gravestone instead …
Mary has moved toward the giant willow tree. 'This,' he says, holding his arms out to encapsulate as much of it as possible. 'Yeah. Perfect. Can you take some pictures of me here?'
There are a smattering of large gravestones just underneath the weeping branches. 'Just … sit on that one,' you say, pointing at the largest. If you were with anyone else you wouldn't ask, but you're starting to realise Mary doesn't really have the same standards of decency as anyone else. Mary looks at you, pointing at the stone, and you nod, so he hops up onto it. 'Maybe bring one foot up on top and hold on to your leg … yes! I know it feels really uncomfortable but it'll look good, I promise.'
It already does. You do get the slightest twinge in your jeans as you retrieve your camera and perch it on a memorial bench – much more dignified than an actual gravestone – to play with the settings. There's going to be a bit of work to do in Photoshop afterwards if Mary can't keep as still as the monuments around him, but you manage to get a decent enough test shot.
'Right, look down for me,' you say, and he obliges. You notice his smirk. 'Stop smiling! It'll look better. Look pissed off. I mean angry.'
'Still not swearing in a graveyard? God. You are too fuckin' precious.' But he's quick to pout, emphasising those full, shapely lips that have brought you so much pleasure since the first time you kissed them in the alley behind your bar …
Nope. Not what we're here for tonight. 'Great, now try … try looking up at the branches just over your left shoulder.'
'Still sitting like this?'
'Yep yep.'
'But it's cutting my ass in half.'
'One more minute, I promise.'
It's less, in fact, but when you tell Mary he's good to slip off, he does so with a giant moan.
'Fuck … it hurts more getting off it,' he says, rubbing his sore behind. You notice, for the first time, that he's wearing the jeans with the rip right across the back.
'You'd better be wearing good underwear,' you tut, and he sticks his tongue between his teeth cheekily, running a slow hand down his ass cheek and back up over the slit in his denim.
'You can come over here and check for yourself, if you want,' he says.
'No, I need you in the branches now,' you say. If you pretend you don't want to take him up on his offer, you might get to this party on time. You direct him to the perfect position again, have him wind one arm into the tendrils of the willow, and get a few more shots where he's partially obscured, between two ornate gravestones, by branches. The more you get into this, the less bothered you are by the location – you doubt many people frequent the place, anyway. There are no new gravestones in the immediate vicinity, and you reason that at least you're appreciating its beauty.
'Baby, you've got a timer on that thing, right?' Mary says, when you let him drop the branches.
'Uh – yeah, why?'
'Why d'you think? Get over here. I want to get some good pictures of us.'
Us? There aren't many photos of you and Mary. Certainly not many fit for public consumption. He keeps them on his beat-up iPhone and you trust that that's where they stay, but you don't know for certain.
'Is this because you've given me permission to say you're my boyfriend?' you say, and he raises his eyebrows.
'You just look fuckin' good tonight,' he purrs. 'And so do I. And so does this place. Now lose the coat, put the fuckin' timer on and get over here …'
You've got ten seconds. You set the timer then hot-foot it over to him, still semi-entwined in the willow branches. He catches you in his arms, winding them both around your waist, and leans into your neck again.
'Don't bite,' you hiss, right before you hear the faint click of your camera.
'I won't,' he assures you. 'I just need it to look like I am. Go and set it again.'
How are you the photography buff, but you're taking orders from him? You have to concede there's something about him when he's in this sort of mood: you do as you're told, and rush back again into the same position. Only this time, Mary roughly unfastens a couple of buttons on your shirt before burying his face in you. Ooh. You can't suppress the tiniest moan when his teeth graze your neck.
'Mmm … you like that, baby?'
Click.
He doesn't move. Just licks your neck, then moves downwards to the part of your chest he's exposed to kiss and nudge at you there, too.
'I'm not saying I don't, per se … but d'you really want photos of this?' you mumble. He's scrabbling for the next button down with one hand, the other still pawing at your waist. He grunts.
'Maybe. Or maybe photos won't do you justice. Which is it?' Finally, he pops the button, and his hand slips under your shirt, bringing out a sharp gasp. 'OK?'
'Your hand … it's freezing.'
'Shit. Sorry. Are you warm enough? C'mere …' Mary pulls you to him, trying to envelop you in his leather jacket. He doesn't fill it but you're bigger than he is, and the two of you together are a tight squeeze. 'Mmm. Yes. That's it …'
He grinds against you, and you aren't surprised in the slightest by the bulge in his jeans. 'Mary?'
He kisses you hard. 'Sorry. Just … there's something about graveyards. You know me.'
You sigh. Of course you know him, and part of you was pretty sure that coming here with him was going to prompt a reaction like this. It says a lot about you, too, that you went in anyway. You wind your fingers into his hair and pull him to you, covering his mouth with yours and sucking his tongue in. You kiss like this, hot and hungry, for a minute or so until Mary wrenches himself away unexpectedly.
'Baby, are you sure you're warm enough?' he says.
Honestly? You'd forgotten about the cold. 'Positive,' you gasp.