Serious

They were on the subway, and usually being on the subway meant "standing there glaring at things while Marshall Lee hit on anything that moved." G.B. didn't care, but it was annoying, because everyone stared at Marshall Lee anyway, and if G.B. was next to him, he got stared at, too. And he could never concentrate on his tablet when someone was staring at him.

Right now, though, Marshall Lee was doing the staring. He had his face too close, and G.B. was tempted to just put his hand on it to get him to back off. "What's the matter? Are you pissed at me?"

And the worst part was that it sounded like Marshall Lee meant it. G.B. scowled. "Marshall Lee, you have an alphabetized list of every way you can upset me. I know, because I've seen you checking things off on it. On the tablet I gave you, no less." Marshall Lee was still staring at him, and G.B. almost said he wasn't mad, just because he wanted Marshall Lee to quit it. But G.B. turned his face away. He didn't say things like that on a subway.

"Yeah, but I haven't done anything recently," said Marshall Lee. His voice was irreverent, but his eyes hadn't moved from G.B.'s face in at least five minutes. And there was a girl right behind him with her boobs hanging out, too! "I thought I was doing good. I took you to that coffee place you like. We talked about that book you made me read. It was good, wasn't it?"

G.B. leaned against the subway pole, even though he knew those were covered in germs and cocaine and heavens-knew-what-else. He wanted to get away from the way Marshall Lee was looking at him. "Yeah, sure." He pulled his tablet out of his back pocket, but before he could flip open the case, Marshall Lee seized his wrists. "Marshall Lee. I want to check my stock portfolio."

"Just a minute." Marshall Lee leaned even closer, and, for a moment, G.B. thought Marshall Lee was going to kiss him. Right there. On the subway. "Do you think I'm serious?"

G.B. wrinkled his nose. "You make a career of not being serious."

Marshall Lee's hands tightened on his wrists. At least people weren't staring right now. Too used to PDA on the subway. "Yeah, but this is different. Do you want me to be serious? I can be serious."

G.B. only blinked, because he didn't know what to think, and Marshall Lee made a frustrated noise. "How long have we been going out, G.B.?"

Okay. Time to shut this down. G.B. shifted his eyes toward the window of the subway. "One year, six months, seventeen days, thirteen hours, fifteen minutes, and—" he glanced at his watch, "thirty-six seconds, plus or minus ten seconds."

"And you still don't think I'm serious."

Why couldn't G.B. make any sense of this conversation? "You're serious about your music…?" G.B. knew that wouldn't help, and it didn't.

Marshall Lee made a frustrated noise and let go of G.B.'s hands so he could run his hands through his hair. "I'm serious about you, too, asshole."

G.B. was suddenly finding it hard to breathe. His fingers closed around the inhaler in his pocket, but it wasn't that kind of hard-to-breathe, and he knew it. Marshall Lee was going to make a scene, and he could only hope he would get out of it with his dignity intact.

Marshall Lee's eyes narrowed—and then they widened again. His hands froze halfway through fluffing up his hair, which made him look insane. It was the look he got when he thought of a new song or solved some lyrical problem that had been on his mind.

G.B. sighed—not in frustration, because at least he knew how to handle this—and reached over to pull Marshall Lee's hands out of his hair. Marshall Lee let him, but now he was staring at G.B. again. When he tried to let go of Marshall Lee's hands, the other man just grabbed his own. "You wanna get married?"

G.B.'s brain shut down. He was sure he heard the click of someone hitting his reset button.

And that only encouraged Marshall Lee! He dropped to one knee, looking up at G.B. like this was the best idea they'd ever had. "I mean it. Marry me."

G.B.'s mouth would not form words. Now people were staring. He had to pull himself together. He swallowed. "We can't get married. We live in New Jersey. Be serious, Marshall Lee." His voice was stern, but he couldn't pull his eyes away from Marshall Lee's face. Sometimes it was like this—G.B. knew Marshall Lee was being stupid, but he pulled G.B. into it anyway. G.B. liked to think he had more composure than that.

"Yeah, but we can get that civil union shit. And New York's two hours away, for Christ's sake!" He moved his thumbs over G.B.'s palms. "Come on. Go ahead and say no if you don't wanna."

People were really staring now—pretty much everyone in the subway car. Some of them looked bored; some of them were smiling. "Sure. Okay. Just—get up."

Marshall Lee smiled in that slow way. Like always, G.B. couldn't focus on anything else. Marshall Lee got up and slid a heavy silver ring off his middle finger. As he slid it on G.B.'s finger—it was almost too big—he leaned forward so he could whisper in G.B.'s ear. "I should have given this to you a long time ago. It's magic. It'll always protect you."

He kissed G.B's cheek, and some of the people watching clapped, and G.B. blushed so dark he felt like it was painted on.

When they rode the subway, G.B. usually kept his eye out for their stop because Marshall Lee hated being underground and did whatever he could to ignore it. But G.B. had lost count, and he couldn't remember where they were going. Today, Marshall Lee led G.B. off the subway, one hand in G.B.'s back pocket.

***

The park. That's right. Because Marshall Lee wanted to play frisbee golf, and G.B. knew he needed some sunshine. It was sunny, and the air smelled good, and there weren't that many people around, and Marshall Lee was holding his hand, and—

It was like being slapped in the face. G.B. pulled his hand out of Marshall Lee's so he could press both fists to his temples. "Wait, what?"

Marshall Lee leaned back on his heels. "What 'what?' I haven't said anything since we got off the subway and you almost fell over that old lady."

G.B. hardly heard him. "You want to get married?" Marshall Lee blinked, like he'd already forgotten the conversation on the subway. Which, frankly, would not have surprised G.B.

G.B. tried to repeat himself, and all that came out was a wheeze. He sat down on the closest bench, and though he kind of wanted his inhaler he couldn't seem to bring his hands down from the side of his face. He wasn't really blinking, either.

Marshall Lee dropped down in front of him, putting his hands on G.B.'s knees. "Hey, are you okay? You went all pale. What's the matter?"

"You want to get married?" G.B. said again. Marshall Lee's response was the same—gentle confusion, like G.B. had asked him a question in a language he didn't understand. "But you—you—"

Okay. Freaking out would not help his case. He took a few breaths until the catch in his throat went away. "Let's look at this—logically." He had to pause because words did not seem to be moving correctly between his brain and his mouth.

Marshall Lee looked confused, but then he shrugged. "Uh… okay." His mouth twisted to the side. "Are you going to take it back or something?" Now it was G.B.'s turn to blink. "You said yes, man. Did you mean it?"

G.B.'s lips parted, and he really should have had a better response, but he just frowned. "Not the point, Marshall Lee. We can't just jump into something like this."

Marshall Lee wasn't frowning, exactly, but he wasn't smiling, either. G.B. wasn't sure if he felt guilty or reassured. "Then what do you want to do?"

"I—" It was always hard to have a serious discussion with Marshall Lee so close. Difficult to concentrate. "…I want to make a list."

For a moment, Marshall Lee looked confused. Then he relaxed and climbed onto the bench beside G.B.—not like a normal person would, of course. He sat with his shoulder to the back, his legs draped over G.B.'s lap. G.B. ignored this, because mentioning it would only give Marshall Lee a chance to change the subject. "Okay. Make your list."

G.B. took out his tablet—which was difficult, because it was back in his pocket and Marshall Lee wouldn't move his legs—and flipped open the case. He had a dictation app because he hated typing on tablets; he started it, very aware of the way Marshall Lee was watching him. Why was everything always a joke?

"Item one," said G.B., calmly and clearly. The words appeared in crisp Times New Roman. There. Already he felt better. "We argue all the time."

"No," said Marshall Lee, putting his hands behind his head.

"No?" said G.B, frowning at his tablet. He almost had to yell at it sometimes to get the app to work, but Marshall Lee could whisper, and it would always take perfect dictation.

"You yell at me a lot, and I annoy you a lot, but we don't fight." He gestured as though ticking something off a list. Which only irritated G.B. more.

"What about last week? When you wouldn't do the dishes?" As far as that goes, it wouldn't even make the top ten list of their fights, but it's what comes to mind, and at least it's something.

Marshall Lee shook his head. "Nope. We haven't fought since we made up."

G.B. frowned at his tablet so he wouldn't have to look at Marshall Lee's face. Thinking about –well, before always made him feel like a jerk. And that was troublesome, because as far as he was aware he had not changed one bit since beginning to date Marshall Lee instead of wanting to strangle him. Even the strangling urge hadn't changed all that much. It could just be channeled into something more productive, because Marshall Lee liked that kind of thing. "You can't judge everything by that fight. That was a bad fight."

"I can set whatever criteria I want," said Marshall Lee smugly. "You didn't define your terms."

G.B. hated when Marshall Lee tried to use science against him. He cleared his throat. "Nevertheless. I do yell at you a lot, and you don't listen, so item one stands. Item two." Item two didn't come as quickly as it should have. There was a list. There had to be, because every time he tried to look in Marshall Lee's face he felt sort of like throwing up.

Ah. Okay. "Item two. I have no idea how we would support ourselves, because my financial aid is entirely dependent on my status as young, parentless, and single."

Marshall Lee started to chuckle. He propped his elbow on the bench and his chin on his elbow. "Is that really what you're worried about? Quit it. I'll get a real job. Suit, tie, whatever-the-fuck-you-want. And I keep telling you you'd get way more scholarships if you just mentioned you were fucking a guy."

G.B.'s ears turned pink. "Marshall Lee! What have I told you about obscenities in public places?" He glanced down at the dictation program and scowled. No point in getting rid of it now. "Item three." This was a good one. "You hate staying in the same place for more than a week."

Marshall Lee had to think about that. "I do," he admitted, drawing out the word. "But even when I leave, I don't stay away that long. We're already practically living together."

"Only because your place is so disgusting I need to attend to it if I ever want to spend time with you." G.B. shook his head. "That's beside the point. Settling down would make you miserable."

"There's a difference between settling down and coming back to the same place. Same difference as growing up and growing old." He winked at G.B.

"I don't care what you say, Marshall Lee. Those are synonyms." Marshall Lee shrugged, and G.B. frowned at the tablet. "Item four. Who would we even invite to the wedding? Fionna? Your mother?"

Marshall Lee's brows drew together. "Don't bring up my mother. Not even to make a point."

G.B. sighed. "You're right. That was too much. But my objection stands nonetheless."

"So we'll elope. You don't invite people to elope." He grinned in a most salacious manner. "And then we could skip straight to the honeymoon and get married later. How does Bali sound? I could teach you to surf. If we ever left the hotel room, I mean."

"Marshall Lee!" G.B. realized he was almost shouting; Marshall Lee was still watching him like nothing had happened. "…You can't dodge everything, you know. We are completely unsuited for marriage." Marshall Lee tweaked a brow, and the lack of concern in his eyes only made G.B.'s frustration grow. "We keep completely different hours and completely different groups of friends. We fight about everything—everything. You hate it when I come to your shows, I hate it when you come and visit me at work, and you can't even tell me you love me unless we're—"

He broke off, because Marshall Lee's expression had changed from warm to cold. Finally. And now that it had, G.B. wasn't sure why he'd been so set on changing it. It had seemed important, and maybe it was, because G.B. had forgotten how quickly Marshall Lee's mood could change. Another thing he could add.

Back before they made up, that expression would have meant the conversation was over, but now it just made Marshall Lee sit up and put his hands behind his head.

It really wasn't the same expression, though. There was frustration, but not the same kind, and not as much. It was almost like he was trying to figure out how to explain his thoughts in a language he didn't know. "…I get to make a counter-list, don't I?"

G.B. blinked. "What?"

"Isn't that what you're always telling me? The best way to know if you're right isn't to look for reasons that you're right. It's to look for reasons that you're wrong." He raised his eyebrows for confirmation. G.B. nodded, albeit grudgingly. "So you think we shouldn't get married, and I think we should. Between the two of us, we should be able to get to the answer, eh?"

To give himself time to think, G.B. began deleting the errant parts of the conversation his tablet had recorded. "…Yes. You're entirely correct."

Marshall Lee crossed his arms. He was not quite smiling again, but he did seem pleased with himself. G.B. tried to ignore the part of him that warmed at Marshall Lee's expression. No, he did not want Marshall Lee to hate him anymore, but that didn't mean he ought to be a pushover just because he was sick of fighting.

"Okay. Counter-item one. It's not like we're going to break up any time soon, were we?" He raised one eyebrow, his expression cool and hard to argue with. "So why not get married? Otherwise, you're just saying we were too complacent to break up."

A flush came into G.B.'s cheeks. "That's not what I said."

"But that's what it means. Isn't that how relationships work? You stay together, and then you get married, because you don't want to break up."

G.B. glared at his pants. "You always say that you're glad we're gay because it means we don't have to follow a script."

Marshall Lee shrugged. "A gentleman reserves the right to change his mind. And that leads into counter-item two. I never said we had to get married right away." Again, G.B. could only blink. Marshall Lee smirked, but only for a moment. "I said we should get married. Future tense, Bubba."

"Don't call me Bubba," said G.B., but without as much heat as usual. He reminded himself he did not want to listen to any of Marshall Lee's reasons and shut his tablet's case, smoothing his hand over the smooth plastic surface. He was finding it easier to breathe, and that was very foolish. He had real objections. They shouldn't have been so easily allayed.

Marshall Lee watched him for a long moment. Casually, he shoved his shoulder against G.B.'s. G.B. could not muster up a sigh; he settled for a longsuffering expression. "Counter-item three. We argue all the time because we know everything about each other. So that means I might know how to drive you nuts, but I usually know how to make it better, too."

G.B.'s lips thinned. "Like proposing to me on a subway."

"Pfft. You liked it." Now he was smiling, and even though G.B. was aware he was still supposed to be angry he couldn't help but feel better. Part of him had always been convinced they would never get over that long-ago argument, that they would never be friends again.

He would be very upset if he didn't have Marshall Lee in his life. That was true. It was harder to find ways to amuse himself.

"Anyway, not the point." Marshall Lee held up a fourth finger. "Counter-item four. The only reason I don't tell you I love you everywhere, all the time," there, he leaned close to G.B. so he could say the words into G.B.'s neck, "is because you make that face at me." And there he did an excellent impression of G.B.'s irritated face.

G.B. fisted his hands on his lap and didn't say anything for a moment. Marshall Lee draped his arm over G.B.'s shoulders. His face was still pressed into G.B.'s neck. Ordinarily, G.B. would have pushed him away—they were in public, after all. But G.B. was thinking.

"…I'll keep the ring," said G.B. finally, looking off into the distance. He felt Marshall Lee grin against his neck and shoved him away. "But don't push it."

Marshall Lee kissed him on the mouth, as chaste as a child. As G.B. stared at him in surprise, he grinned and put his hands behind his head. "Love you too, Bubba."