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Language:
English
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Published:
2025-09-25
Words:
408
Chapters:
1/1
Comments:
5
Kudos:
26
Bookmarks:
2
Hits:
253

Bells

Work Text:

The bell above the door jingled in that way every comic shop bell seems genetically engineered to—slightly too loud, slightly too tinny, as if to announce: yes, you are in a store whose primary clientele have not made eye contact with sunlight in three days. William shoved the door wider with his hip, balancing a precarious stack of trade paperbacks he had sworn to himself he wouldn’t buy (he had already failed).

Mark trailed after him, hair sticking up in the back in a way that suggested he’d fallen asleep on his physics homework. Which was, in fact, the truth. Mark was the kind of person who looked disheveled not because he didn’t care but because entropy seemed personally invested in his aesthetic. William, by contrast, had ironed his shirt this morning for no real reason other than the faint possibility Mark might notice. (He didn’t.)

“You don’t actually like the Clone Saga,” William said, trying for casual but failing, his voice spiking at Saga like a squeaky balloon. “You just think it’s funny that Peter Parker’s evil twin is named Ben, which is—what? The least menacing name possible? Like, oh no, Ben’s here, guess we’re doomed.”

Mark laughed, the kind of easy, full-body laugh that made William both want to high-five him and jump off a building. “I mean, he’s not wrong. Ben’s like… the guy who fixes your printer.”

“That’s literally what I’m saying.” William rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him. “You’re supposed to side with me here.”

“Okay, but—” Mark ducked into the aisle of back issues, running his finger along the faded plastic sleeves. “Sometimes dumb plots are comforting. Like, you know how bad movies are actually good when you’re sad? Same thing.”

Which, of course, was infuriatingly reasonable. Which was also infuriatingly Mark. And William found himself cataloging the little things again: the way Mark bent slightly to read the lower shelves instead of crouching, the way his sneakers squeaked against linoleum, the way he didn’t notice the cashier staring at him because Mark never noticed when people stared.

William did. He always did.

“So,” William said, adjusting his stack like he wasn’t sweating through his palms, “if I buy you Volume One, you’re actually gonna read it and not just let it collect dust under your bed?”

Mark grinned, crooked, boyish, devastating. “Guess you’ll have to come check.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? William wanted to.