Just Marc
The Velvet Noose of Hospitality
The Smith household was never a sanctuary of sanity, but since Marc Aidan had started hanging around, the energy had shifted from "suburban chaos" to "gothic melodrama." Steve sat on his bed, nervously picking at a loose thread on his comforter. He had finally managed to convince the tallest, coolest, and most chemically dependent kid at Pearl Bailey High to come over for a Halo marathon, but there was a gray, bulbous elephant in the room. Or rather, an alien in the attic.
"So, Marc," Steve said, trying to drown out the suspicious rustling coming from the vents. "I was thinking we could try to beat the Library level on Legendary. It’s hard, but with your... you know, reach... you could probably hit the buttons from across the room."
Marc was sprawled in Steve’s beanbag chair, looking like a discarded piece of modern art. His long legs were tangled in cords, and his electric-blue hair streak was glowing faintly under the neon beer sign Stan had confiscated from a drug den and gifted to Steve for his birthday. Marc took a slow, deliberate sip from his silver flask, his throat bobbing.
"Sure, Smith," Marc droned, his voice vibrating with a bass note that made Steve’s windows rattle. "As long as your 'uncle' doesn't try to give me a sponge bath again. That was... specific. He had a loofah shaped like a starfish and a look in his eyes that suggested he’s seen the birth of a star."
"He’s just... tactile!" Steve squeaked. "He’s from a culture where personal space is considered a sign of weakness! Like... Italy! Or a very crowded elevator!"
The bedroom door didn't just open; it disintegrated under the force of a dramatic entrance. Roger stood there, draped in a sheer, floor-length silk robe that left very little to the imagination—mostly because his anatomy was essentially a smooth, gray pear. He was wearing a platinum blonde wig styled into a "tragic widow" bob and held a long, slender cigarette holder that emitted bubbles instead of smoke.
"Oh, look at you two," Roger purred, his voice a sultry rasp that sounded like sandpaper rubbing against velvet. "Two young bucks, locking horns in the digital arena. The testosterone in here is so thick I could spread it on a cracker and call it pâté."
Marc didn't even look up from the controller. "Hey, Phil. Or Roger. Or whatever persona you’re wearing to avoid a psych ward today. Nice robe. It really highlights your... lack of everything."
Roger glided across the floor, his movements fluid and unsettling. He leaned over the back of the beanbag chair, his gray face inches from Marc’s ear. He sniffed loudly, a wet, snuffling sound that made Steve cringe.
"You smell like rain, cheap gin, and the kind of bad decisions that lead to a very interesting memoir," Roger whispered, his voice dripping with suggestion. "Tell me, Marc, does a boy of your... verticality... find it difficult to find a bed that fits? Because I have a California King with Egyptian cotton sheets and a built-in sound machine that plays the screams of my enemies. Or ocean waves. It’s a toggle switch."
"Roger!" Steve yelled, jumping up. "We’re playing a game! A manly, platonic, non-suggestive game!"
"Oh, hush, Steven. The adults are talking," Roger snapped, before turning his gaze back to Marc. He reached out a spindly finger and traced the blue streak in Marc’s hair. "Such a bold choice. It says, 'I’m rebellious,' but it also says, 'I have a very specific color palette for my inevitable funeral.' I find it... devastatingly erotic."
Marc finally turned his head, his icy blue eyes meeting Roger’s black voids. He didn't pull away. Instead, he took another swig from his flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You’re a weird little guy, you know that? Most people would be terrified of you. But I grew up with six older brothers. I’ve had weirder things than you crawl into my bed just to steal my socks."
Roger gasped, clutching his nonexistent chest. "A challenge! I love a challenge. It gives the hunt such a delicious piquancy. Tell me, Marc, have you ever been to the Swiss Alps? I have a chalet there. Well, I have the deed to a chalet. I stole it from a man named Gunther who thought he could out-drink a creature with two livers and a burning desire for revenge."
"I’m fourteen, Phil," Marc reminded him, though his tone was more amused than offended. "The furthest I’ve been is a Greyhound station in Baltimore when I tried to run away from home to join a cult. They rejected me because I was too tall for the robes."
"Their loss, my gain," Roger said, now practically sitting on Marc’s shoulder. He began to massage Marc’s neck with his cold, clammy hands. "You’re so tense. Like a coiled spring. Or a very moody skyscraper. You need to relax. I have some 'herbal' tea in the attic. It’s mostly hallucinogenic mushrooms and a splash of Gatorade for electrolytes. We could go up there, put on some Depeche Mode, and I could show you my collection of vintage corsets. I think you’d fill one out nicely. You have the hips for it."
Steve was vibrating with pure, unadulterated awkwardness. "Marc, you don't have to listen to him! We can go to the park! We can go to the library! We can go literally anywhere that isn't within six feet of this gray menace!"
"Relax, Smith," Marc said, leaning back into Roger’s massage with a sigh. "His hands are cold, but his technique is solid. It’s like being touched by a very talented refrigerator."
Roger beamed, his eyes crinkling. "You hear that, Steven? The boy appreciates the finer things. He has the soul of a poet and the liver of a seasoned dockworker. We’re kindred spirits! Two ships passing in the night, except one ship is very tall and the other ship is wearing a $4,000 wig I stole from a Drag Queen’s dressing room in Reno."
Suddenly, the floorboards groaned. Stan’s voice boomed from the hallway. "Steve! Is that giant delinquent still in there? I’ve been monitoring the house’s structural integrity, and his sheer weight is causing a three-degree tilt toward the neighbor’s yard!"
The door flew open, and Stan marched in, wearing a camouflage apron and holding a meat thermometer like a weapon. He stopped, staring at the scene: Marc in the beanbag, Roger draped over him like a silk-covered parasite, and Steve looking like he wanted to dissolve into the floor.
"Roger! What did I tell you about 'grooming' the guests?" Stan barked. "The CIA has very strict guidelines about psychological warfare on minors! You have to fill out a Form 12-B first!"
"Oh, bite me, Stan!" Roger hissed, sticking his tongue out. "I’m just being a good host. Marc and I were just discussing the merits of a well-tailored suit and the possibility of a weekend getaway to a place where the laws of physics are merely suggestions."
Stan looked at Marc, who was currently staring at the meat thermometer with a look of profound boredom. "Aidan! Why aren't you running? Most people run when Roger starts using words like 'piquancy' and 'Egyptian cotton.'"
Marc shrugged, the movement shifting Roger’s weight. "I like the chaos, Mr. Smith. It reminds me of home, but with fewer diapers and more... whatever this is. Besides, your 'uncle' is the first person in this town who hasn't asked me if I play basketball."
Stan’s expression softened. "Respect. I hate basketball. It’s a sport for people who are too tall to fit into a tank. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kid. Too bad it’s so far away from the rest of your body. Francine’s making 'Mystery Meatloaf.' It’s mystery because the label fell off the can in 1994, but it’s still mostly protein. You staying?"
"Free food and a talking fish?" Marc asked, glancing at Klaus, who was currently trying to use a tiny straw to drink from Marc’s discarded soda can. "I’m in."
"Excellent!" Stan shouted. "Steve, set a place for the skyscraper! Roger, put some pants on! I can see your... whatever those are! They look like two grapes in a sock!"
"They’re my 'thinking nodules,' Stan! And they’re magnificent!" Roger shouted back as Stan marched out.
Roger turned back to Marc, giving him a slow, conspiratorial wink. He leaned in one last time, his voice a low, suggestive hum. "Dinner is just the preamble, darling. The real feast is in the attic. I have a bottle of absinthe that was banned in three countries and a DVD of 'The Cure' live in Berlin. Think about it. Or don't think. Thinking is so... pedestrian."
With a final pat on Marc’s cheek, Roger spun around and pranced out of the room, his silk robe billowing behind him like a ghostly sail.
Marc sat in silence for a moment, then looked at Steve. "Your family is going to be the death of me, Smith."
"I know," Steve sighed, slumped against the wall. "But at least you’ll have a great funeral. Roger probably already has the veil picked out."
"He does," Klaus chimed in from the floor. "It’s black lace with little silver skulls. He tried it on this morning while you were in the shower. He looked surprisingly dignified. Like a very sad, very gray Jackie O."
Marc stood up, his massive frame nearly reaching the ceiling fan. He cracked his knuckles and looked at the bedroom door. "Mystery meatloaf and a sexual predator alien. This beats the hell out of doing algebra with my brothers."
As they headed downstairs, the house felt alive with the strange, frantic energy that only the Smiths could provide. In the kitchen, Francine was humming a tune while stirring something that smelled vaguely of ozone and beef. Stan was lecturing a toaster about national security. And in the shadows of the hallway, Roger was already changing into a new outfit—something involving sequins and a very small beret.
Marc Aidan, the emo kid with the blue streak and the heavy heart, felt a strange sense of peace. He was a misfit among misfits, a giant in a world of small-minded people. And as he sat down at the table, dodging a stray meatloaf projectile from a passing Roger, he knew one thing for certain.
He was never going to be bored again.
"Pass the gravy, Phil," Marc said, leaning back as Roger sashayed past him in a French maid outfit.
"It's 'Desirée' tonight, mon chéri," Roger whispered, sliding the gravy boat across the table with a wink. "And the gravy isn't the only thing that’s... thick and savory."
"Roger!" the whole family yelled in unison.
Marc just smiled, took a bite of the 1994 meatloaf, and wondered if he could survive the night without being kidnapped to the Swiss Alps. It was a risk he was willing to take. After all, the gin in his flask was running low, and he had a feeling Roger knew exactly where the good stuff was hidden.