Title: And Things That Go Bump in the Night
Author: Sarken (sarken@gmail.com)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Stephen King wrote 'Salem's Lot, and he was the first one to bring the slash.
Author's note: TThis is TNT-2004-remake-verse, but with some book-verse details tossed in. The rating is due to the pairing. The title is from an old Scottish prayer: "From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us!"
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For Ben, the problem with motel rooms is no longer the size or the filth, but rather the things in the next room that go bump in the night. The blaring television he could sleep through, but the creaking bed frame keeps him awake and staring wide-eyed into the darkness.
Mark, sleeping in the other bed, kicks at the covers and shoves his pillow away. He wakes himself screaming in a language of his own. Clutching the blanket, he blinks over and over, hoping his eyes will open and see light. There is only darkness.
"Ben?" Mark's voice cracks and the name becomes two syllables in the air.
Ben says nothing because he, a writer, has no words for this -- none that are true. It will never be okay, and it was a memory, not a nightmare, so he looks at the ceiling and breathes.
"Ben." This time, the name is a whisper. Mark stands by Ben's bed, his hands clenching and unclenching around the air. Ben always answers, sometimes before Mark makes a sound. Ben could be dead; please don't be dead.
"Yeah," Ben says soothingly, like the falsehoods he refused to voice. He lifts the blankets and pats the mattress beside him, an invitation to save Mark the embarrassment of asking. Ben almost knows what this is like.
Mark burrows beneath the covers, pressing close, closer to Ben. Their skin sticks, Mark's back to Ben's chest. Mark's sweatpants are twisted around his legs.
Ben's arms, over and under Mark, hold on so tightly that it's hard to breathe. The pressure in their chests reminds them that they are alive, and Ben brushes his lips against Mark's shoulder.
Mark wriggles in Ben's arms, and the man parts his lips to apologize as he drops his arms to the mattress. Ben will tell this lie to keep Mark near, but his tongue can barely form a word before Mark is facing him, kissing him with uncertain, rough lips and open eyes.
Ben Mears isn't Maryanne Corbett and kissing on a motel bed isn't kissing under an apple tree, but Mark decides he likes this better as he takes a moment to breathe. He fills his lungs once before Ben slides his tongue into Mark's mouth. With his eyes closed, Mark can taste toothpaste and a hint of beer. (With Maryanne, he had tasted bubblegum, all sweet and pink.)
Ben rolls onto his back, pulling Mark on top of him. All of Mark's weight is resting on Ben's chest, making it that much harder to breathe. He breaks the kiss when little dancing spots explode in front of his closed eyes. Mark shifts his weight to his knees, which are now spread, one on either side of Ben's torso. Breathing becomes easier.
Mark places a hand on Ben's chest, and the feel of skin against his fingertips reminds Mark that Ben is naked, makes him remember pretending to sleep as Ben stripped off his clothes and tossed them onto the floor. "Now what?" Mark asks.
"Now we sleep," Ben says, his hand reaching up to hold Mark's. "Tomorrow we'll be in Detroit."
:end: