[2] Had A Dad

[threedimensions]

Dimensions: [2]
Timeline: Autumn 2032
Title: Had A Dad
Summary: Terry's father is found dead and he has a lot of Feelings about it; Mark goes to keep him company and thinks a lot about his own experiences
Rating: Hard R/NC17 (m/m sexual content)
~9.7k

>Warnings

The cocky little shit with the Epiphone obsession gave Brandon a pissy look when he pointed to the outside door. "Or you can save it," Brandon said; he was clearly trying to be patient, but the look on his face indicated that no argument would be heard. "I don't want to smell that shit when I'm in there."

"But you're cool with the pot stink," the kid shot back, casually tapping the end of his pack of cigarettes against the inside of his wrist.

"Yeah," Brandon said, leaning in a little closer to the mic for the intercom. "Know why? Because it's my studio. Take five outside if you want to smoke that, or we're getting back into it."

Mark smiled a little to himself as the bass player gave the guitarist a shove and the singer said something to him that made him roll his eyes—but all five of them went. Brandon rolled his eyes himself and shut the intercom off, saving the audio he'd just been recording and switching desktops on the computer to bring up his email. "Mouthy little bastard," Brandon muttered. "How hard is it to just do what you're told?"

Mark tried to hold onto his smirk but couldn't. He started laughing harder when Brandon gave him a withering look. "How are you not utterly fucking crushed by the weight of irony sometimes?" Mark managed.

"Fuck off, I know what you're thinking and there's no fucking way I was ever as entitled or demanding as that kid. He's eighty-five percent mouth."

"Oh no, no. I mean...he's dead set on their songs as they wrote them and won't take any suggestions to change one word or one riff. Artistic license, you know. He's going to play it exactly how he wants and goes all sneery if you try to get him to at least try a different lyric or even an effect or a pedal or to get him play one of my guitars to see how different it sounds."

Brandon shrugged. "Did you really care? It was only that Fender piece of shit."

"No. And he wouldn't anyway, because he had an image in mind for himself and knew what he wanted their songs to sound like, outside influences be damned." Mark grinned. "He just...really reminds me of someone."

"Fuck off," Brandon said again, though not angrily. After he pause, he added, "I never told a producer, that was covering all my costs for the time being, to get something through their head. Fucking rude. Who raised this kid? Our kids would never talk to someone like that."

"Zack once told your dad to stop being an idiot."

"Well...Zack's a mouthy little shit, isn't he?" Brandon paused. "Was he being an idiot?"

Mark shrugged. "I don't remember. Probably. Stacey told me about him being a smart mouth when I went to pick them up."

Brandon grinned a little. "Dad was probably doing it on purpose. He was good at that."

"True."

"And in either case, that's our kid talking to someone he knows, who was probably trying to goad him. This mouthy little shit is just being a fucking nuisance."

Mark snorted, remembering a sneer identical to the one the new band's guitar player had just had on twenty-five-year-old Brandon's face, and his own mouthy comment of it's my song and my lyric and if I change it, it's a different song, so go write your own if you want that line in something. "They're young," he said instead. "They're idealistic and you're throwing their dream at them while challenging parts of it. He's just butting heads because he wants to know how far they can go. And because he's nineteen. Chill on him a bit."

"I'd rather make him fucking listen to me," Brandon muttered, frowning at the mixing board. "It's not like I haven't been doing this since I was nineteen and have any experience with it."

"Didn't work with you. Man, remember that fit you threw about, uh—who was it, our first label who kept trying to get us to put a slow love song on? You got pissy and refused to even think about it. And then, like, twenty minutes later, you were sulking because you had one or did want to include one, but now you couldn't because then they'd think they got to tell you what to do." Mark smirked again at the annoyed look Brandon had turned his way. "Listen. This kid is you. You want him to take your advice? Give it in the same way you would've taken it at that age, when we were first starting out and you also thought you already knew fucking everything."

"I did not! I knew I didn't, I just—"

"Acted like it?"

"Well...yeah?" Brandon shrugged. "If you don't a thousand percent know what you're doing, but still want your own say, you kinda have to, you know." He gestured.

"Fake it til you make it?"

"Yeah. I guess that sounds nicer than establish dominance."

Mark snorted again. "Freak," he said, and got out his phone as it chimed.

"Listen, my fucking take charge attitude, or whatever you want to call it, is part of the reason we always got to do whatever we wanted," Brandon said. He was getting defensive even though they both knew that no one was actually challenging him at the moment. "So I did know what I was doing, at least when it came to our music. I took advice about touring and merch and a bunch of other shit. But we—me and you, mostly—had the songs under control, so I—we—didn't need any input there. These kids, they're good, and they've got the right idea and they're definitely going in the right direction, but—"

"Oh, holy shit," Mark said softly, eyes on his phone, and his tone of voice made Brandon stop talking and turn to look at him sharply. After a second, Mark glanced up from the screen, solemn. "So...Terry Corgan. Um. His dad. Just...killed himself."

Brandon's mouth dropped open. "Wh—? Fuck." There was silence for a moment while Mark read another two messages of frantic run-on sentences and Brandon glanced down at his screen, but didn't read any of the text. "Do they know why?" he asked after a moment.

Mark shook his head. "He says he thinks his sister knows about or has a note, but she won't tell him what's on it. He's really freaking out. I'm gonna go call him."

"Oh." Brandon watched as he stood up at once and headed for the door, his phone still going off as more texts came in.

It took Mark a couple of minutes to get up from the studio in the basement, across the first floor to the stairs, then to the second floor and to the outside patio area. It was shaded and there were several lounge chairs; it was one of Mark's favorite spots, and as he sat on the edge of one, he heard more new message chimes. I'm here hang on a sec, he typed quickly as the three dots indicated that Terry was still going. He scrolled back up to the first large chunk and started to re-read.

So heyyyyyy guess what my dad just killed himself apparently!!

As in dead! He's dead and has been for at least two days but no one found him until this morning jesus wtf

WTF wtf wtfff what am I supposed to do am I supposed to do anything am I supposed to care I think I do I mean Christmas I haven't seen in him in years since 2008 when I left when I was 18 and he never cared about me anyway but he's my dad what the fuck wtf what the actual fuck do I do

tami is there already she who called me and she won't answer me about if he left a note I think that means he did but that she don't want to tell me about it

WHY wouldn't she tell me???? what could be on it? Why would he do this? They've even been divorced for years now I think like 15 years

tho tami did just say that he tried to get back in touch with her and our mom last year and neither of them wanted to talk to him could that be it but then why wouldn't she tell me what was on the note

and now it's like not that I ever expected that he'd want to see me or you know apologize or get to know me again or be a part of my life

but it's like now there's not even any chance and I probably didn't give him enough chances either and I never reached out he could have changed his mind about me and it could of been different and how bad does it have to be to literally make yourself die

Well. Mark's mouth tightened a little as he thought, pretty bad, actually. But Terry didn't know about that and didn't need to; as far as Mark was aware, the only ones that knew just how close he'd gotten were Jack, Brandon, and Lilly. He might talk about it with the trips one day, but they were only nine years old now and he didn't want to frighten them with something he wasn't sure they'd really understand. Of course, who really understood suicide? The mechanics and the thought processes, sure. But to really know how it felt to arrive to that decision and start setting up camp, making careful, calm plans, feeling relieved and looking forward to it...that was something else.

Another text came in: ok I'm hanging but only by a thread. I don't know what to do???

Mark sighed. Text was not going to be sufficient here; he hit the phone icon to call Terry instead. "Do I go to the funeral?" he answered, his voice breathless and a little higher-pitched than Mark thought he remembered. That made sense—Terry didn't respond to crushing stress very well. But who the hell would respond to this well? And what would be considered well?

"If you want to," Mark said. "I think that's up to you, not like, a standard thing. It's not required if you don't want to deal with it."

"I don't know if I'm invited," Terry said quickly, his voice wavering a little. "Do you invite people to a funeral? I've never seen a guest list?"

"No...I think the family can request that people not come, or...if there's a threat, get the police involved, but...no, man, there's not a list. You can go if you want, or not if you don't."

"I don't know if I want. He—he was my dad but...but I..."

"I know, man," Mark said gently. "I'm sorry. Shit. Really sorry."

"I th—I think I do, or I should, but I. I don't want to, um...Tami's going to be staying with our mom, but she still w—won't care if I'm there. And I don't. Want to...you know. Go. Alone."

Mark tried to remember the name of Terry's most recent boyfriend, to ask if he wouldn't go along, but then he realized that it didn't matter—if he still had one, and he was willing, it wouldn't be a question. And either way, it seemed like Terry might be asking him to go with him. Someone that knew the history between Terry and his dad, someone that had been around when some of the worst of it was going down. Someone that he trusted to help him hang on. Someone that had been there for him before.

"When is it?" Mark asked.

"I—don't know? A few days. Th...they only just found him. This morning. He...he hung himself. Jesus."

Mark closed his eyes and his mind's eye gave him a memory of standing on a folding chair and looking up. "Okay," he said after a moment. "Do you want me to come down? I can go with you if you want, and if you don't, we can just—" not hang out "—chill, for a little bit."

He heard Terry take a steadying breath. "If you can," he said carefully, "that would...be good. I don't...I don't have anyone else I can..."

"Okay," Mark said again. "Let me..." He thought for a second and then went on. "Let me get some stuff and plans in order, and I'll call you back." He paused again. "I'm really sorry, man. That...really sucks. I'm gonna be on my way soon, okay? Hold on."

"Okay," Terry said, his voice faint now. "Thanks."

"Sure. Talk soon." Mark ended the call and got up at once, going to Jack's office, where he tapped on the door quickly. After a few seconds, it opened and Jack was there, raising his eyebrows a little as he would have recognized the urgency in Mark that he usually didn't show. Mark tried to give him a smile so that he didn't think anything was wrong with him—or Brandon, or the trips—but he only made a partial before giving it up. "Hey, man. I need a flight to New York. Today, if possible. As soon as possible."

Jack stepped back and tilted his head toward his desk, and Mark came into the office, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the long side of the L-shaped desk while Jack opened a file on one of his monitors with some of Mark's information on it and an airline booking site on another. "Today is possible," Jack said a moment later, surveying the available flights and times.

Mark looked at the screen. "Do you think I can make that three-thirty if I rush to pack and get going to the airport before too long?"

"Yes." Jack clicked on it and waited for the next page to load. "When will you be returning?"

Mark sighed. "I don't know. Get me a one-way for now and I'll figure it out later on. Um...you remember Terry? Brandon's ex that I still talk to sometimes? I went to his wedding...went to hang out with him for a weekend when he got divorced, I've gone over to New York here and there to hang out with him?"

"Yes."

"Right, well...um, he just found out that his dad, uh, killed himself. And...he doesn't have anyone right now. To even help him figure out if he wants to go to the funeral." He shook his head. "I'm going to go."

"Yes," Jack said again, his voice quieter. He understood.

"Send all of that to me when it goes through? I'm going to run up and pack some shit real fast and get out of here." Mark leaned over to kiss him on the side of the face. "Thanks. I'll see you in a little while."

"All right."

Mark left Jack's office and hurriedly climbed the stairs to the large bedroom on the third floor. He grabbed a duffel bag and snatched some clothes from the side of the closet he shared with Brandon, hearing his phone chime several times with his flight information and ticket as he was finishing up. He went back down to the first floor and dropped his bag by the front door, then continued down to the basement to say goodbye to Brandon. He signaled to him to talk in private, and he told the kids in the studio to give him a minute before leaving the control room and following Mark out into the hallway next to the stairs.

"When are you coming back?" he asked after Mark explained what was going on, his brow wrinkled.

"Not sure. Few days. A week, maybe." Mark shrugged. "Could be a little longer."

"The trips are still at Lilly's'," Brandon reminded. "You won't get to see them if you're leaving now."

"I know. Tell them I'm sorry. I'll call them and we'll FaceTime later." Mark paused. "But I gotta go."

"Okay. Um..." Brandon dropped his eyes and rubbed at the back of his head briefly. "Tell him, um, that I'm sorry."

"Okay," Mark said softly. He stepped closer and put both arms around him, then told him the same thing he'd told Jack. "I'll see you in a little while."

Brandon quickly put a hand on Mark's face, cupping his jaw, and he kissed him for a long moment before letting him go. When he did, he turned back to the studio at once and Mark looked after him for a few seconds longer before going back up the stairs and to the door.

.

Mark stayed with Terry for a little over two weeks. From arriving at his apartment the first day and finding him already well into a heavy drinking session, to nagging him to eat, to flying to Texas with him for the funeral, then coming back to New York, he stayed close and tried to do what he could for his friend. It wasn't much, but it was something. Mark wasn't sure how Terry would have reacted if alone in the days after finding out that his father's suicide note had basically blamed him for every bad thing that had happened with their family, even since before they'd moved away from Chicago... As it was, he reacted with surprise and hurt and anger, drinking and sleeping and trying not to show that he'd been crying. It didn't matter; Mark could feel it. He tried everything he could think of to distract him, and most of it worked or helped, at least for a while.

"You've been gone kind of a long time," Brandon said to him as they FaceTimed one night. "We all know that you're helping someone out, but...?"

Mark nodded. "I know." He had been thinking earlier that Terry seemed a lot better, and he had been there for a long while, but twice so far in the last couple of weeks, Terry's mood had taken a dive out of nowhere after he'd seemed to be getting back to himself, and then he was at bottom again. "I'm sure I'll be heading back before too long," Mark said. He hadn't been sure of any such thing, but he knew he needed to keep it in mind the next day.

"Okay." Brandon accepted that but didn't seem incredibly pleased by it. He hesitated, then asked, "Is it...any better now?"

"It's better, yeah, but...you can imagine."

Brandon raised his eyebrows. "Any idea how much longer...?"

"No," Mark said softly. He was tired and ached to be home, to be with him and Jack and the rest of his family. To hold each of his kids in his arms, to lie with Jack when he was content and feel his trust and happiness. To touch Brandon, to kiss him and stay right by his side whether they were writing or playing or working or chilling; next to each other were their right places. Since they'd made it serious fifteen years ago, they hadn't gone for more than a week without being back together. Two weeks fucking sucked. If he'd have known it was going to be this long, he would've gone home for a day or two and then come back if Terry still needed him that much.

And then, in addition to being away from them for so long, having to spend all of this time hearing and thinking about suicide and seeing the aftermath and reactions in family was awful. It was fucking grotesque.

Even though they'd been estranged for so long, John Corgan's ex-wife and daughter were still in tears in the wake of his final decision, and Terry was probably never going to fully get over it, not with his tangled feelings from before mixing with all of this shit. Mark felt all of their emotions and it shook him. He tried not to think of Jack's before, of how he had felt when recounting to Mark what his own final decision had done to them all. He tried to separate himself from the feelings of shock and loss and heartbreak, and he tried to block off a mean voice inside himself that insisted to him that this wasn't even a fraction of what Brandon (and the rest of his family and friends) had felt that first time. During his funeral. After finding him. He didn't know who had found him when he'd gone through with it before; Jack hadn't known either and he'd had no desire to find out. Brandon hadn't made it to his funeral and Jack had stayed with him.

John Corgan's family shuffled around and muttered things like, "such a waste", and "couldn't even try", and "I guess we'll never really know." They were understandably surprised and sad. Mark hadn't been able to stop himself from comparing their reactions, their feelings, with what he could barely acknowledge as what would have been Brandon's feelings before. He had spent the last few weeks drinking more than he probably should have been as well—he'd also started smoking cigarettes again, which Brandon loathed and he'd have to try to cold turkey when he was on his way back home; he was almost up to a pack a day again. (Even though it'd been weeks and Brandon clearly missed him and wanted to be able to touch him again, Mark was fairly sure he'd recoil and retch and refuse to get close to him again until he didn't smell like a stale ashtray.)

"Are you okay?" Brandon asked in a low voice. While not knowing, of course, of the before, he knew that a lot of talk or thought about suicide still bothered Mark. He hadn't had any thoughts or feelings about it for himself since he'd been brought back so long ago, but the memories of how bad it had gotten for him were...uncomfortable, at best. Brandon didn't fully know why—just the obvious—but he could see it at once.

"Yeah." Mark tried to smile and made it mostly convincing. "I just miss you...and Jack and the kids."

"The kids definitely miss you," Brandon said at once. "Zack's new thing is attempting to strike by refusing to bathe for the last three days. I'm tempted to let him keep going so that you're barraged with a stinky kid when you get back. Irina and Spencer are acting a little bummed out, too. They ask every morning if you're coming home today." He paused. "I have to tell them that I don't know."

Shit..."Are they in bed yet?" Mark glanced at the display in the corner of his phone and realized what time it was just as Brandon nodded. "Aw, fuck, I was planning on calling them tonight."

"A couple of hours ago. I told them I was going to call you and that you'd call them tomorrow morning."

"Okay. I'll do that." Mark paused. "Where's Jack?"

"Went back to his office after we said goodnight to the trips. He really misses you, too." Brandon tilted the phone so that Mark now saw the empty expanse of bed next to where Brandon was sitting up against the headboard. "See this?" he asked. "Just him and me in the bed to sleep is too empty with you gone." He moved the screen back and Mark could see a wistful look on his face. "I don't sleep for shit without you with me, you know."

He normally didn't sleep for shit anyway, and least of all when he was excited about a band—theirs or one he was producing for; the group of kids with the cocky guitar player were almost finished with their first cut, and Brandon had told Mark while he and Terry were still in Texas that the kid had finally agreed to let Brandon help tweak a couple of their songs, grudgingly admitting that they sounded better. Brandon had taken Mark's advice and seemed to be trying very hard to carefully approach the kid in a manner that might actually get results, and it had been working. Not only that, but the kid was a naturally talented guitarist, and a week ago Brandon had sent Mark a text full of praise, and swearing, and swearing praise, as he informed him that the kid had actually helped him fix something in one of No Name Band's old demos that they'd talked about including on their next record. Working always kept Brandon up, especially on tour; when they were home, though, even if he stayed awake for days and worked himself ragged, he would always want Mark with him when he finally got to the point of crashing, needing to sleep next to him, tangled up in him, in order to fully relax.

"I love you," Mark told him.

That brought the real smile back, the one that he had been missing. "I love you too," Brandon said softly. "You're gonna come home as soon as you can, right?"

"I'll try. Let me see what I can figure out tomorrow, and I'll call you and let you know."

"Okay. Good." Brandon's grin turned slightly predatory. "I can't wait to get my hands on you again." He lowered his voice again. "You want to know something?"

Mark thought that he could guess, but Brandon liked to say it. "Yeah?" he prompted.

"Two weeks...is too fucking long...to go without putting my dick in you."

Mark agreed, but he didn't exactly want to be aroused right now, in Terry's guest bedroom; he also didn't really want to come up on the possibility of masturbating in here. He was forty, not nineteen, and could probably just wait for his turn to take out some of his own frustration from the lack of contact when he got home. However...

"When I get you back," Brandon continued, his voice still low but now with a hint of a growl, "I'm going to fuck you so good that you're going to have to hold on to me to stay grounded. Then...you're not going to be able to get up. I'm just going to hold you with me forever. I'm going to break the record."

"That's ambitious," Mark said, shifting slightly as he felt his dick reacting to Brandon's ideas. "What are we up to, seven?"

"Yup," he said proudly. "Seven times. Same day."

"I dunno, man, six was a long time ago."

As he expected, Mark saw Brandon's eyes widen slightly with the challenge. "Oh, I'm gonna make it. Seven's lucky. The day you get home." He paused. "Or possibly the day after. The first day, I might need you to fuck me roughly fifteen times."

Mark's dick was definitely hard now, and he licked his lips. "Is the fifteen an approximation, or are you saying you want it really hard that many times?"

"Both? Duh."

Damn it. He was going to beat off or he was going to go to sleep with aching balls, and after fifteen years with two people that could (and very gladly would) get him off just about any time he wanted, he wasn't about to do that. "You're a dick," Mark informed him, and even though he was sure Terry was asleep, he lowered his voice as well. "I was going to just go to sleep like a good kid. Now you're putting all of these images in my head. You're a bad influence."

"What did I do?" Brandon asked, slightly pouting but clearly interested.

"You're making me think gay thoughts."

Brandon grinned brilliantly. "That's honestly what I live for."

Then again, Mark thought, he might go to sleep a little faster. He couldn't touch Brandon right now, but that didn't mean he couldn't get off with him. Seeing him on the screen, hearing his voice through the earphones that he'd put in for assured privacy, would be enough, for now. They hadn't done this in a while. A long while, but hey. Mark tilted his phone down and kept his groin in the frame while he unzipped his jeans and stuck his hand into the flap in the front of his boxers, pulling his cock out. With some of the pressure alleviated, he made a small, satisfied sound as he dragged his thumb over the hole. He then brought the phone back up in time to see a longing, hungry look on Brandon's face. He'd clearly thought of the same thing, though; he tilted his own phone down enough so that Mark could see the outline of his dick against his boxers, which were all he was wearing. He dragged a finger from the tip of his cock down to his balls, accentuating how hard it was, then he wrapped his fingers around the shaft and gave it a good squeeze.

Mark licked his lips and mirrored his move, squeezing his own dick and wanting badly to be at home at that moment, in their room with him so that he could pull the front of his boxers away and get his dick out, give it a good lick before taking it down and looking up to see the way Brandon tilted his head back, making those breathy moaning sounds that he'd try to hold on to but eventually could not. Mark hadn't undressed for bed yet, having just come into the guest room after a night out in a series of bars with Terry (he'd left his friend in his own room with a bottle of water and the ibuprofen after half-dragging him and the nine drinks he'd had at the last bar back to his apartment; Terry had mumbled something that sounded like "sourdough icicles" and Mark had just told him "yeah", fairly sure that he would be dead to the world in just another minute), and now he grinned into the screen, told Brandon to hang on for a sec, and stood up quickly, pulling everything off. Back on the bed, phone in one hand and his dick in the other, he settled in.

.

Late the next morning, Mark came out of the guest bedroom to find Terry in the kitchen making toaster waffles. "Hey," Mark said. "What's up, man?"

"Just Eggos," Terry said faintly. Mark studied him closely, concentrating and feeling out, deciding after a moment that he was okay...for now. And that he was determined, this time, to make himself be okay for good, to get himself back on track.

"Okay, well...l'eggo a few for me."

"Got 'em," Terry said, glancing over his shoulder as Mark pulled a chair out at the table. "What do you want on them? I usually just go for butter and syrup."

"That's fine."

The toaster popped up and Terry speared four waffles with a fork, dropped two on each plate, then brought them and a bottle of real maple syrup to the table. He sat and concentrated on slathering both in butter before dousing them in syrup. "Karaoke was fun," he said suddenly. "I haven't been in a really long time. I forgot how much of a blast it was to do a song in front of a crowd."

Mark grinned. It had amused the hell out of him to see Terry on the little stage, totally getting into the song; the band had played a couple of times with him on vocals when they were teenagers and they'd all had fun. Terry had a great voice and liked to sing, and he apparently loved doing No Name songs, which was also a trip. "It was fun," he agreed. "Even for how much you screwed up my goddamn song."

"I made it better and you know it," Terry insisted at once. "And if you hated it so much, you should've gone on yourself and done it right. But you get to do that all the time, I guess."

"Sometimes, yeah." They'd toured last year and Brandon had already been talking about going again next year, but they'd had a four-year break in between their last album and the one before it. He loved the band almost as much as Brandon did, but he was definitely of the opinion in these last ten or so years that staying home and being with his family—his guys and his kids and his parents and friends—was nothing to shit on. "You go a lot?" he asked Terry.

He shrugged. "Not anymore. I used to, with some friends. It's more fun with a bunch of people. But now, I don't...really know that many people anymore."

Mark watched him cutting his waffle with the side of his fork, always aligning with the edge of the squares. He made both circular waffles into squares, then began cutting them row by row, not hungry but using the food as another distraction. He had lost weight in the last couple of weeks, the greyish circles under his eyes staying stubbornly put as he struggled with it all.

Mark could've nudged him to eat now, but he didn't. He added more syrup to his waffles and was suddenly reminded of a time he'd walked into the kitchen at home and had caught Irina chugging from their syrup bottle when she was about three. He'd stopped in his tracks, staring at the amount of goo smeared all over her clothes, her hair, her skin, the front of the fridge, the puddle in front of her baby Converse sneakers...He smiled now, remembering how he'd insisted to both Brandon and Jack that as he was supposed to have been watching her, he'd clean her up. Half an hour later, he'd given up trying to untangle thick, sticky, partly-dried knots in her hair, Brandon and Jack both tried and failed as well, and she'd gotten her first major haircut. She'd been thrilled with her new hair, Jack hadn't been able to figure out how she'd bypassed the pantry door lock, and he updated the code for that door and the refrigerator as well, activating the door alarms for good measure.

(Two days later, Mark had been jerked awake from a snooze on the sofa by the alarm, and he'd gently but quickly picked up and set down a sleepy Spencer, who had been snuggling with him as they both dozed off to the movie he'd put on for all the kids; he'd rushed into the kitchen just in time to see Zack look over his shoulder guiltily as he reached up for the ice cream Irina was attempting to pass him from her place on top of a chair. They had both frozen as he cleared his throat in accompaniment to the beeping of the alarm and folded his arms, and when Irina gave him a huge, proud smile, he couldn't find it in himself to scold them.)

"So," he said slowly, trying to feel out as he spoke, "I'm thinking I'm going to want to be headed home, soon. I just, you know, miss everyone a lot, and the kids—"

He stopped as Terry looked up at him, startled, blinking before his mouth dropped open and he gasped. "Oh my god!" he said. "Shit! I'm sorry? I kind of...totally blanked on them. Idiot," he said to himself as he rolled his eyes and shook his head. "Just because I'm alone doesn't mean everyone else is. Jesus. Your kids are little still, aren't they?"

"Uh, well, they're nine, so not really little, but, you know. Still kids."

"Right. Kids that miss one of their parents. Dammit. I'm really sorry." He put his fork down harder than necessary, still annoyed with himself. "I thought about them a few days ago, actually, and I was going to say something, but I forgot. Are you leaving now?"

"Not right this minute," Mark said, feeling worry and anxiety along with Terry's guilt. He felt bad that Mark had been away from his family for so long, but he wasn't quite okay yet. However...it had been two weeks. "I could always come back in a little while and we could hang out again," Mark offered. "It's just—yeah, it's been a few weeks, and...don't want my spot at home to get cold, you know."

"Sure, yeah, absolutely." Terry frowned at his plate distractedly. "Um...I guess, yeah, you probably really miss all of them, not just the kids."

"Yeah."

Now the look Terry gave him came with an almost accusatory feeling. "You know. How lucky you are to have all of them. Right?"

"Yeah, totally," Mark said evenly. He knew more than anyone but Jack would ever understand.

Terry dropped his eyes back down to his plate. "Are your parents still alive?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yeah." After a pause, he added, "Brandon's dad is gone, though."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I remember when you told me that happened. Like two years ago?"

"About that, yeah."

There was another pause, in which Terry stared at his syrupy plate and Mark watched him. "That really sucks," he said then. "He really loved his dad. Right?"

"Yeah."

"I used to love mine. When I was...really little. I was his boy, and he was my dad, and..."

"I know, man."

Terry looked up hopefully. "He's okay now, though, right?"

"Brandon? Yeah...I mean, it took a while, and he's still sad about it, but." Mark shrugged. Gary had died in his sleep with evidently no precursor to heart failure; the shock of his loss had been a big factor in how all of his kids and his wife had reacted. When death was such a surprise, there were often unanswered questions and 'what-if's and 'if only's. There was nothing that anyone could do about that, not really.

"At least he had a lot of good years with him," Terry said sadly. "And you—you get along with your dad, right?"

"Sure."

"So...that's good. He—he's proud of you, and is happy that you're happy with your family and how it is, right?"

Mostly. It had been a long, long time since Mark had noticed Brandon feeling both defiant and upset around him, due to the way his father would look at him sometimes; it had been especially bad when they'd first gotten together. But that was almost forever ago now...both of his parents had finally started to get used to their relationship when the trips came along, and there was even a span of several weeks a few years ago when everyone was practically pasted in frosting because his bakery-owning mother had just realized that Jack knew how to bake shit too, and they had exchanged recipes for a while. (Zack, their actual cookie monster, had been in heaven until Brandon had decided that the kids—and, truthfully, the adults too—had been having entirely too much sugar and he started pawning off baked goods on everyone from Kylen and Andrew and Luke to his partners in TL and even a few artists that came to record.) Jack had been pleased that Mark's mother had been talking to him kindly and sharing her own recipes willingly; even his father had complimented some pastry thing they'd collaborated to make, which had actually caused Jack to smile a little in their presence.

Mark could still feel it, though. There was distance between them all at best, lingering feelings of hostility at worst.

Still. That was nothing compared to how Terry's father had acted towards him. Yes, Mark's dad had many times made Brandon feel hurt and inadequate, and he had often made Jack feel unnoticed and unimportant. He'd made it pretty obvious over a period of years that he didn't especially like his son's relationship, but never once had Mark ever doubted that his father loved him and truly did want him to be happy with what was best for him. Approval or not, he did acknowledge now that both Brandon and Jack existed and that Mark loved them and their kids. He'd never been afraid that his father wouldn't want to know him anymore based on who he might love. He'd certainly never been verbally or physically abused by his father based on who he might love or want to be with.

He'd definitely never had to deal with all of that, then find out that his father committed suicide and blamed him for that and everything else short of 9/11.

"I'm glad to have the parents that I do," Mark said then. "I'm trying to be a good one for my own kids, too. It doesn't make a lot of sense to me...the way some people act." He sighed. "Like with your dad, man. I know it's gonna mess with you for a while. I just hope you can be all right about it as soon as you can."

"I'm trying," Terry said quietly.

"I know. And it's going to take more than just a couple of weeks. It's not really something you can make happen, I don't think. It'll just take time. And filling your life with as much good as you can. Hey, I'll come back and we'll catch a game or something, all right?"

"Yeah. That'd be good." Terry tried to smile and almost made it. "I guess you should get going, though. You got a lot of people that are probably missing you as much as you're missing them."

"Yeah." Mark ate the last piece of his waffle and caught himself savoring it. "Mm. Can't get quality cardboard food like this at home, though," he said. "I'm not knocking the great homemade shit we all get all the time, but man. Sometimes you just gotta have some crappy, over-processed junk food—it's basically verboten in my house."

"That's where I specialize," Terry said, slightly proudly. He crammed a row of waffle squares into his mouth, made a sound that indicated Eggo was the food of the gods, and said, "I tried to learn to cook for a while, but...it never really panned out." Mark felt him waiting hopefully and, after a second, recognized the pun and rolled his eyes appropriately. Terry grinned, and then he became a little tentative again. "Um...depending on when you get a flight back home, I can make us some shitty boxed macaroni and cheese later?"

"If you don't," Mark said gravely, "I'm leaving this minute and I'm never coming back."

"But...I made you bacon."

"You burnt my bacon."

"At least you had some."

"Yeah, true. Though I am kind of in the mood for some modified food starch and cheese powder dye number forty-six or whatever."

Terry raised his eyebrows. "I'm going to tell everyone that you're cheating on your homemade-from-scratch meals with Kraft Macaroni and Cheese."

"Sounds ominous."

"It will be. But it's still easy enough to make that I only fuck it up about half the time." Terry suddenly snickered. "Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to make a cake for one of my ex's birthday and—"

Mark held up a hand. "You burnt it," he guessed. "Forgot a vital ingredient. Added something completely off the wall because you thought it was an acceptable substitute."

Terry threw his arms in the air. "How was I supposed to know that baking powder and baking soda aren't the same thing? They're both for baking. They look the same." He paused while Mark laughed at him. "That wasn't even the worst part, actually."

"Do I want to know...?"

"Uh...I had done that exact same thing the year before and didn't remember the horror it caused."

"Hey, dumbass, that's how you were supposed to know."

"Hey! Do you even cook?"

"Nope." Mark grinned. "Don't have to. That's what we have Jack for."

"Well...aren't you just fucking lucky. I bet it's really good, too." He got wistful then. "Ben was really good at cooking, too. You remember him? You met him once?"

"Uh huh, yeah." Mark wanted to steer him away from the topic of another failed relationship that still stung. "So what happened with your not-a-birthday-cake?"

Terry made a face. "It was...well, first, it tasted like death. Second, it was...just really weird. Flat and...heavy."

Mark thought of the last piece of cake he'd eaten that Jack had made—Jack and Zack, actually, since it was their day to do an activity together and while Zack wanted cookies first, Jack had told him it'd be up to him to cut them, and Zack didn't have the patience for that even after both Spencer and Irina had offered to help decorate them—it had been light but moist and rich. "That sounds disgusting," he said.

"It was." Terry grinned. "And poor Ben, just...kept trying really hard to eat it and not look like he was going to throw up or cry or both. I took one bite and chucked it out the window." His expression turned a little worried. "I think I probably single-handedly killed all of the pigeons in a two-block radius. The can of frosting was delicious though."

"Weapons grade cake," Mark suggested.

Terry snorted. "Title of your next album?"

"Andrew and Nick would totally go for it, but Brandon, no."

"Then he's a fun hater. You need to put something on it that has to do with death cake. Maybe one of Andrew's songs?"

"I'll see what I can do," Mark said, picturing Andrew's bright, gleeful look and Brandon's deadpan you're fucking kidding me stare. Then, their last album did include a little instrumental Andrew had gotten to title "8PM Pants Off" after Brandon had lost a bet.

"That'd be funny," Terry said to his plate, smiling a little still. Mark thought that as long as Brandon didn't know the origin, he had a fair chance of getting something like that on there. Terry could use a win, a solid reminder that he was not, as he honestly thought, completely alone.

.

Mark headed home the next day, after calling Brandon to let him know and then to talking to the kids, directing Zack to c'mon man, take a freakin' bath or he wasn't going to get any of the presents he'd bought him. (Mark had to then follow Terry around to a few little shops in the neighborhood to actually get the kids some presents, but that made up a nice enough last day.) As he expected, he got a fierce hug and more thanks from Terry before he took off for the airport, giving back his own promise that he'd keep in touch with him and would come back in a few weeks or so. He tapped his fingers irritably to the music he listened to on the plane, wanting both a cigarette and to be home.

Kids hugged, presents given and exclaimed over. Kids sent to Lilly's—or to Stacey's, or with Shane or Kylen or Mark's parents, someone?—and Brandon did ring the bell on number seven, though he was slightly disappointed that Jack had been involved with their marathon and thus it was not a true accomplishment of his next goal. As they curled up to go to sleep together, he muttered that they'd reach it one of these days no matter what, chafing be damned, and Mark had snickered with his face in Brandon's neck until he'd dozed off, warm and happy in the middle with Jack pressed up against his back and both of their arms around him.

.

"Hey, Dad," Mark said as he slid onto a bar stool a few days later.

His father glanced over, saw him, and broke into a huge grin. "Mark! Haven't seen you in here for a while. What's up?"

"Not a lot," Mark said as his dad put a napkin and a bottle on the bar in front of him. "Just thought I'd pop over. It has been a while. I'm thinking I'll bring the kids over this weekend? Maybe you and me can take Zack fishing one of these days?" He'd already asked Irina and Spencer if they'd want to go as well, and only Zack had seemed semi-interested.

"Sounds perfect," his dad said, beaming. He motioned to one of the bartenders, then muttered quietly to her that he was going to sit down with his son for a bit, but he'd be around if he was needed. She nodded and shot Mark a smile, then headed down to the U in the bar to serve a couple of women that had just sat down. Mark grinned back at his dad as he pulled over a stool and popped the cap off his own beer. He hoped his kids would grow up knowing—and would always be confident as adults—that he loved them the same way he had always known that his father loved him.

.

"I don't know if it's better or worse," Brandon said in a low voice.

Mark looked at him, noticing how tight his mouth was as he watched Spencer carefully transporting a flower from a pot into the ground as Stacey looked on and smiled. Irina was walking around some of the other sites, looking at names and flowers and keepsakes, and Zack was standing up tall on his grandfather's gravestone—no one had told him to get down, knowing that Gary wouldn't have given two shits. (They all knew he wouldn't have given as much as one squirt of warm piss in a cold bucket to have a stone at all, but Brandon had insisted. "He was important," he had said repeatedly, and after the death of his dad, no one had argued.)

Brandon and Mark were standing together a little ways away from GARY AARON HAYES 12/18/1960—12/02/2030, and when he felt what Brandon was feeling, Mark took his hand and squeezed it. "If what is?" he asked gently.

"My dad, or...Terry's dad." He frowned a little more. "The choice. You know? My dad didn't have a choice. He didn't even know anything happened. He just...went to sleep, and didn't wake up. His dad...he chose to die. He made the decision." He paused. "There's...something to be said for that?"

"I guess."

"But I don't mean for them. Either way, they're gone, and nothing matters anymore. I mean everyone else that gets left behind."

Brandon, like a lot of people, had mixed feelings about suicide: on one hand, it was the coward's way out, it was exiting stage left when the rest of the band tried to go on without them, especially if they were leaving family and friends who loved them. On the other hand, though, he recognized that no one who hadn't been there really knew what it felt like. He didn't believe in any sort of afterlife, only the cessation of a person's consciousness, so the true sorrow of any death amounted to the reactions of those left behind. He generally found it hard to sympathize with a person's suicide when their shocked family and friends were devastated.

(Jack had assured Mark that no, Brandon had never been angry with him that last time, only guilty and regretful, blaming himself. But Mark thought that he was probably wrong about that; it would make perfect sense for Brandon to, at least at one point, feel anger and resentment over the way it had gone—toward Mark himself as well as the situation—but that was something he'd never know for sure. He felt like he could have a fairly accurate guess, though.)

Realizing that Mark hadn't replied to that, Brandon looked at him. "I've never...been in a position to be considering it, though. And I haven't lost anyone to it. So I guess...my opinion doesn't really matter."

"It's not better," Mark said quietly. "'He made the choice' might make some people still around feel better, so if the ones left behind are all that matter, then sure, I guess. But that doesn't always work. And it doesn't take away from what was going on with someone to—to get to that point."

"No," Brandon agreed softly.

They were both quiet then, watching Zack attempting to do the Karate Kid Crane Kick from his place still atop Gary's gravestone and Spencer carefully tamping down the soil around the root of the flower he'd planted. Irina was several rows away now, still idly walking around and checking things out; Mark noticed that she touched a lot of the stones and the flowers, but didn't disturb any.

When they got home, Brandon went down to the studio to webcam into a meeting with his lawyer for TL and a label rep. Stacey had taken the trips home with her, so the house was mostly empty and still. Mark went out onto the second floor patio area to call Terry and try to set up his next trip to the east coast whenever Terry had time. "Any time," Terry said at once, and Mark smiled a little. He seemed to be a doing a little better and was mostly enthusiastic over the idea of hanging out together again versus needing someone to keep him from tripping down a black hole. Mark told him he'd get back to him soon and then sat outside by himself for a while, looking at nothing and thinking.

After a bit, he messaged Jack. When you get a minute can you get me another trip to NY soonish? Just for a weekend is fine game tickets or something would be finer, dates are open

A moment later, Jack's avatar—the new AG logo Mark had drawn for him a few years ago—jumped to the bottom of the messages and three dots appeared. Which sort of event would you prefer?

Idk see what's available, doesn't matter really, he sent back.

A few minutes later, his phone lit up with notifications regarding his flight confirmation and scan codes for two tickets to a hockey game. He started to type perfect thx to Jack and then shook his phone to erase it. Are you in the middle of anything he sent instead.

Almost immediately: No.

Come up stairs with me?

Yes. I will be one moment.

Mark smiled as he got up, putting his still-chiming phone in his pocket and going back inside. He went by Jack's office door without stopping as he headed for the stairs up to their room, where he stretched out on his back on the large bed, his feet hanging over the edge and his arms behind his head. A couple of minutes later, Jack was there, easing down next to him.

"Thanks," Mark said as he looked up at the ceiling. "It's better, but I told him before I left that I'd come back at some point soon."

Jack didn't respond verbally, but he toed his shoes off and pulled his legs up onto the bed, crossing them like the kids did when they sat on the floor. Mark glanced at him and tried to think of what it must have been like, this same time but in a different time. Fifteen years after his suicide, Brandon and Jack would have been together for over twenty years; they'd stayed together, had a kid of their own, Jack had kept on with his games and Brandon had moved solely into production. He knew they hadn't been happy (Jack had described it as "a great amount of stillness" in their lives), but they had gone on. It was what everyone did. They went on or they didn't.

"I'm sorry," he said. He felt Jack's confusion as he searched his memory for something Mark might have done that required an apology and found nothing. "For last time," he clarified quietly. He had said it before, many times, but he didn't think he'd ever be able to come close to making up for it. He'd never stop being sorry for it, guilty over putting them through it. Even though they both kind of agreed that it had to happen in order for them to have what they had now, it wasn't always the justification that mattered.

"I do not blame you."

"I know...but I'm still sorry."

"The situation...was most difficult for you. It affected you very much," Jack said gently.

"Maybe, but...it affected you guys, too. A lot. Brandon..." He sighed and looked back up at the ceiling. "I wish I could tell him that I'm sorry. But...he doesn't know it happened."

"No," Jack agreed. "It does not exist now."

Mark glanced at him again. "It does for you."

"But not for Brandon. And not for you."

At least Jack could be calm about it, to justify it to himself. That was probably what mattered most, since he was the only one now that had really lived through it. Brandon hadn't, not really, because he was kind of a different person this time than before. Different experiences, different memories. To him, it was something that had been on the brink, but averted. That was bad enough.

"You're the one that's had to go through it and remember it." Mark closed his eyes as he felt an old wound that was mostly healed over in Jack ache a little again. He knew that a lot of that was due to how they were this time—Jack had been upset before, certainly, but it was difficult to separate how he felt about Mark now with the memory of those incomplete years in the before—and it still hurt him. Brandon had told Mark years ago that he still sometimes thought of it, what could have happened. Jack would still think of it too, only for him, it had been real. "I'm not saying it was all my fault," Mark said. "I know it wasn't. Or that I shouldn't have done it. That's...too big to really touch. I'm just...sorry that it happened."

Slowly, Jack stretched his legs back out and lay down next to Mark, turning on his side to put an arm over him. "You are here now," he said quietly.

Mark felt Jack's love for him and he grinned. "Yeah. And...you know, this time? I wouldn't change anything."

"Nor would I," Jack said. He sat up a little, enough to look down in the direction of Mark's face, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in the beginning of a grin. "You will remove your pants," he said decisively.

Mark grinned. "What's the magic word?" he teased.

Jack raised his eyebrows and thought about it. "Now," he said.

Mark decided that he hadn't been wrong (the magic word, it seemed, was really time, and now was a part of that time—right now, the most important part) and he quickly complied. They had now, and not only was it all he could ask for, it was all he could ever want.